•*%-•*» 


l&UCATiQN  DEFT. 


SEQUEJL 

TO 

THE  ENGLISH  READER. 

OR, 

ELEGANT  SELECTIONS 
IJV  PROSE  JtND  POETRY. 

DESIGNED    TO    IMPROVE 

THE  HIGHEST  CLASS  OF  LEARNERS  IN  READING. 

TO    ESTABLISH 

A  TASTE  EpR  JUST  AND  ACCURATE  COMPOSITION 


A3fD    TO    PROMOTE 

THE    INTERESTS    OF    PIETY    AND    VIRTUE. 


BT  LINDLET  MURRAY, 

AUTHOR  OF   AN  tk  ENGLISH   GRAMMAR   ADAPTED  TO  THE 
DIFFERENT  CLASSES  OF  LEARNERS,"  &C. 

PRINTED    FROM    THE    LAST    ENGLISH    EDITION. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

BRINTED    AND    PUBLISHED    BY    J.    SHARPE. 

1821. 

i 


RECOMMENDATIOXSr. 

c  We  notice  ^ his  i^^ul  volume  of  Mr.  Murray,  for 
sa'ke  of  the  additibii^Hnd  improvements  which  it  has  re- 
in  r^<is  edi&oirWrhe  selections  are  enlarged  by  nine 
"  'different  aMicles";  t/f 'which  it  is  enough  to  say,  that  they 
display  Mr.  Murray's  taste,  judgment,  and  acquaintance 
ivith  English  lite rature  ;  and  that  enlightened  regard  to  re- 
ligion and  morali'ty,  which  so  eminently  qualifies  him  to 
guide  the  studies  of  youth.  What,  however,  chiefly  de- 
acrves  our  remark,  is  an  appendix  annexed  to  this  edition, 
containing  Biographical  Sketches  of  the  au-hors  mentioned 
in  the  "Introduction  to  the  English  Reader,"  the  u  Eng- 
lish Reader"'  itself,  and  the  "  Sequel  to  the  Reader;"  with 
occasional  strictures  on  their  writings,  and  references  to 
the  particul.tr  works  by  which  they  have  been  most  distin- 
gi  hed.  These  si  .ire  uncommonly  well  done.  They 

form  a  sort  of  introduction  to  Liierary  History  and  Criti- 
cism, which  must  prove  both  interesting  and  instructive  to 
the.  juvenile  mind.'1  'Journal,  Feb.  180/>. 

iw  \V  h-.ivc  :?lre.'ily  borne  our  testimony  to  the  high  me- 
rit^^Mr.  Murray,  us  an  acute  grammarian,  MK!  as  blend- 
ing in  his  various  works,  with  uncommon  haflBless,  a  de- 
li rate  and  correct  taste  both  in  literature  and  morals.  .We 
are  pleased,  though  not  surprised,  to  sec  that  the  pubiij^has 
cU  maruk'd  a  new  edition  of  the  respectable  work  now  be- 
fore us."  Annual  Revittv,  1804. 

u  We  regard  as  a  very  valuable  improvement,  the  bio- 
graphical and  critical  A/ipt'/ufw,  introduced  into  this  edi- 
tion, of  the  u  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader."  It  contains 
short,  but  instructive  accounts,  of  all  the  authors  from 
whose  works  both  these  selections  have  been  formed,  those 
excepted,  \\;  .  living.  This  compilation  (the  Sequel) 

appears  more  free  from  objectionable  passages,  and  better 
adapted  to  the  imorovenv  ni  of  youth,  than  any  other  of  the 
fchvl  which  \ve  have  seen/''  Eclectic  .  June,  1  «OJ. 

6i  The  second  edition  of  this  excellent  school  iDOok  con- 
tains  the  addition  of  nine  extracts  selected  from  Adciison, 
C.rter,  Hawkesworth,  &c.-  An  Appendix  also  of  02  pages 
is  subjoined,  ci;.  Biograpiiical -Sk  the  au- 

thors  from  whom  this  selection  is  rn^cie.  Thev:e  are  execu- 
ted wnh  hr-  ••  y  and  iv.-;»riu^— We  have  no  hesir ;Uon  is 
r« •cc»«iaitndiii^L  Utb  selection,  as  the  best  of  its  kind/ 

Critical  Rev 
. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  u  English  Reader"  has  been  so  favourably  receiv- 
ed by  the  public,  as  to  encourage  the  Compiler  to  hop  ,  t?'  it 
the  present  volume  will  not  be  deemed  unworthy  of  atten- 
tion.;. It  pursues  the  same  objects  as  the  former.'Work  ;  it 
preserves  thesaran  chaste  attention  to  the  ^morals  (>f  youth  5 
its  materials  are  taken  from  the  most  com  ct  and  elegant 
writers  :  and  as  the  pieces  are  gent-rally  more  t  xtendrd,  and 
contain  a  greater  variety  of  style  and  composition,  it  is  pre- 
sumed that  it  forms  a  proper  u  Sequel  to  the  Reader,"  and 
is  calculated  to  improve,  both  in  schools  and  in  private  ia- 
milies,  the  highest  class  of  young  readers. 

In  selecting  materials  for  the  po'etical .  part,  of  his  work9 
the  Compiler  met  with  few  authors,  the  whole  of  whose 
writings  were  unexceptionable.  Some  of  them  have  had  un- 
guarded moments,  in.  which  they  have  written  what  is  not 
proper  to  come  under  the  notice  of  youth.  He  must  not 
therefore  be  understood  as  recommending  every  production 
ot  Al  the  poets  who  have  contributed  to  his  selection.^  Ju- 
dicious parents  and  tutors,  who  feel  the  importance  •>  a 
guarded  education,  will  find  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  se- 
lect for  their  children  and  pupils,  such  writings,  both  in 
prose  and  poetry,  as  are  proper  for  their  perusal ;  and  young 
persons  will  evince  their  virtue  and  good  sense,  by  cordi- 
ally acquiescing  in  the  judgment  of  those  who  are  deeply 
interested  in  their  welfare.  Perhaps  the  best  reason  that 
can  he  off-red,  in  favour  of  poetical  selections  for  the  use 
of  young  and  innocent  minds,,  i?^  the  tendency  which  they 
have,  when  properly  made,  to  preserve  thr  chastity  of  their 
sentiments,  and  the  purity  of  their  mor  4s. 

In  "  The  Sequel,"  as  well  as  in  u  The  English  Reader," 

peveral   pieces  are  introduced,  which  in  a  striking   manner 

'  j,iuty  and  excellence  of  the  Christian  religion. 

*  Justice  to  the  .authors  from  -whose  writi  ngs  the  extracts  were  made,, 
re]  to  the  credit  of  the  present  work,  rendered  the  insertion 
.;cnbabJe, 

<\    1    •*. 


INTRODUCTION. 

.Extracts  of  this  kind,  if  frequently  diffused  amongst  the 
elements  of  literature,  \voukl  doubtless  produce  happy  ef- 
fects on  th  minds  of  youth  ;  and  contribute  vrrv  materially 
to  counteract,  both  the  ojvn  and  the  st.cn  t  labours  of  Infi- 
delity. With  these  views,  the  Compiler  derived  particular 
isfaction,  in  selecting  those  pieces  which  are  calculated 
to  attach  the  young  mind  to  a  religion  perfectly  adapted  to 
th-e  condition, of  man  ;  and  which  not  only  furnishes  the 
most  rational  and  sublime  enjoyments  in  this  life,  but  se- 
cures complete  and  permanent  felicity  hereafter. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  second  edition  of  this  work  lias  received  the  Author's 
particular  attention  Many  oj  the  pieces  in  thejon.-trtdi- 
tion,  are  omitted,  and  others  imcrtec  ivhich  are  oj  superior 
Gnanct;or  more  interesting  10  young  pa-nons.  The  new 
almon  contain*  also*  in  an  Appendix^  Biographical  Sketch- 
es 'ft'ie  auditors  mentioned  ni  the  *•'  Introduction  to  the  Ln- 
gli  -n  A'.W.r,"  the  ^  English  Header"  itself  ^  and  the  "Sequel 
to  the  K;  adcr**  ivith  occasional  strictures  on  their  writings^ 
ana  references  to  the  particular  ivc.r&x  Inj  ivnich  ttiey  have 
b' en  most  distinfuhhed*  The  strictures  are  derived  from 
an tli .  r-v  :f  /a . ic  and  celebrity. 

By  ,'hese  Biographical  Sketches^  it  is  the  Compiler's  in- 
not  on 'y  to  gr at ?J i,  the  young  reader's  curiosity  res- 
p^'inig  the  authors  r,J  tne pieces  he  has  perused ;  but  aho  t9 
present  td  inm  such  fucts  and  sentiments  as  are  peculiarly 
i>  -.iruct've  and  interesting,  and  calculated  to  make  durable 
impressions  on  his  mind.  T/ie  language  too  oj  these  sketches 
ha*  been  sindiously  regarded:  that  no  want  oj  accur-ty  or 
per. picwty  in  the  composition,  might  prevent  this  purl  of 
the  book  from  forming  an  additional  number  of  occasional 
exerc2<.e$  in  rtdd'^g. 

In  the  THIRD  edition,  several  Biographical  Sketches  will 
be  /•;  -nd,  of  authors  iv/io  died  since  the  publication  of  the 
iv  r/?. 

*  Fi  om  t!ie  difficulty  of  obtaining'  accurate  and  impartial  information,, 
and  from  motives  of  delicacy,  no  account  is  given  of  living1  authors 


CONTENTS. 

PAT1T  I.— PIECES  IN  PROSE, 

CHAPTER  I.— NARRATIVE  PIECES. 

Page. 
SEC.  1.  Religion  the  foundation  of  content.  An  allegory,  7 

2.  The  vision  of  Mirza;  exhibiting  a  picture  of 

human  life,  12 

3.  Endeavours  of  mankind  to  get  rid  of  their  bur- 

dens ;  a  dream,  15 

4.  The  same  subject  continued,  18 

5.  The  vision  of  Almet,  21 

6.  Religion  and  superstition  contrasted.  A  visiorij  35 

CHAPTER  II.— DIDACTIC  PIECES. 

SEC.  1.  Vicious  connexions  the  ruin  of  virtue,  29 

2.  On  Cheerfulness,  .  3? 

3.  Happy  effects  of  contemplating  the  works  of  na- 

ture, 36 

4.  Refit  ctions  on  the  universal  presence  of  the 

Deity,  38 

CHAPTER  III.— ARGUMENTATIVE  PIECES. 

SEC.  1.  Our  imperfect  knowledge  of  a  future  state,  suit- 
ed to  the  condition  of  man,  42 

2.  Youth  the  proper  season  for  gaining  knowledge, 

and  forming  religious  habits,  40 

3.  The  truth  of  Christianity  proved,  from  the  con- 

version of  the  Apostle  Paul,  49 

CHAPTER  IV." DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 

SEC.  1*  The  heavens  and  the  earth  show  the  glory  and 
the  wisdom  of  their  Creator. — The  earth  hap- 
pily adapted  to  the  nature  of  man,  $2 
2.  An  eruption  of  mount  Vesuvius,                            5$ 
3*  Description  of  the  preparations  made  by  Xerx- 
es>  the  Persian  monarch^  for  invading  6r.tec«,  $7 


CONTENTS. 

fi£C.  4.  Character  of  Martin  Luther,  Gg 

5.  Tne  good  and  the  bad  man  compared,  in  the 

seas«n  of  adversity,  63 

CHAPTER  V, —PATHETIC  PIECES. 
SEC.  1.  Rome  saved  by  female  virtue,  66 

2.  Execution  of  Cranm&r,  Archbishop  of  Canter- 

bury, 72 

3.  Christianity  furnishes  the  best  consolation  un- 

der the  evils  of  life,  74 

4.  Benefits  to  be  derived  from  scenes  of  distress,    76 

CHAPTER  VI.— DIALOGUES. 

SEC.  1.  Theron  and  Aspasio. — Beauty  and  utility  com- 
bined in  the  productions  of  nature,  81 

2.  Cadmus  and  Hercules. — Importance  of  litera- 

ture, 83 

3.  Marcus  Aurelius   Philosophus  and   Servius 

Tullius. — An  absolute  and  limited  monarchy 
compared,  87 

1.  Theron  and  Aspasio. — On  the  excellence  of  the 

Holy  Scriptures,  90 

CHAPTER  VII.— PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 

SEC.  1.  The  defence  of  Socrates  before  his  Judges,          96 

2.  The  Scythian  ambassadors  to  Alexander,  on  his 
making  preparations  to  attack  their  country,     100 

3.  Speech  of  the  earl  of  Chatham,  on  the  subject 

of  employing  Indians    to   fight   against  the 
Americans,  103 

CHAPTER  VI 1 1.— PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 

SEC.  !•  Tht  Voyage  of  Lite;  an  allegory,  104 

2.  The  vanity  of  those  pursuits  which  have  hu- 

man approbation  for  their  chief  object,  10& 

3.  The  folly  and  misery  ot  idleness,  112 

4.  Tnc  choice  of  cmr  situation  in  life,  a  point  of 

great  importance, 


CONTENTS. 

Bage, 
SEC.  5.  No  life  pleasing  to  God,  that  is  not  useful  to 

man.   An  eastern  narrative,  121 

6.  Character  of  the  great  Founder  of  Christianity,  12& 

7.  The  spirit  and  laws  of  Christianity  superior  to 

those  of  every  other  religion,  127 

8.  The  vision  of  Carazan :  or,  social  love  and  be- 

neficence recommended,  13O 

9.  Creation  the  product  of  divine  goodness,  134 

10.  The  benefits  of  religious  retirement,  136 

11.  History  of  ten  days  of  Seged,  emperor  of 

Ethiopia,  142 

12.  History  of  Seged  continued,  14£ 

13.  The  vision  of  Theodore,  the  hermit  of  Tene- 

riffe,  found  in  his  cell,  149 

14.  The  vision  of  Theodore  continued,  154 
15-  The  vision  of  Theodore  continued.  157 


PART  II.— PIECES  IN  POETRY. 

CH AFTER  I.— NARRATIVE  PIECES. 

3EC.  1.  The  chameleon  -r  or  pertinacity  exposed,  161 

2*  The  hare  and  many  friends,  162 

3.  The  three  warnings,  164 

4.  The  hermit,  167 

CHAPTER  II  — DIDACTIC  PIECES. 

SEC.  1.  The  love  of  the  world  detected,  173 

2.  On  Friendship,  174 

3.  Improvement  of  time  recommended.  17$ 

CHAPTKR  III.— DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 

3EC.  1.  The  Spring,  Igf 

2.  Description  of  winter  at  Copenhagen,  182 

3.  Night  described,  183 

4.  Grongar  Hill,  185; 

5.  Description  of  a  Parish  poor-house,  187 

6.  A  summer  evening's  meditation,  180 


CONTENTS. 


SEC.  T.  Cheerfulness, 

8.  Providence,  193 

9.  The  last  day.  194 

CHAPTER  IV.—  PATHETIC  PIECES. 

SEC.  1.  Hvmn  to  humanity,  196 

2.  A  night-piere  on  death,  198 

3.  In  t  •.  'dition  oi  life,  praise  is  due  to  the 

Creator,  201 

4.  Folly  of  human  pursuits,  202 

5.  An  address  to  the  D'/uy,  203 

6.  A  monody  on  the  death  of  lady  Lyttleton.  2O5 

CHAPTER  V.—  PRO  Ml  .   PIECES. 

SEC.  1.  Hvmn  to  contentment,  210 

-2.   \\\  il-^v  writ;   n  in  a  country  church-yard,  912 

3.  Ode  to  tti-dom,  2i5 

4.  The  Rake  ;md  the  Hermit,  217 

5.  The  deserted  village,  221 

6.  The  (1   seit  cl  vill.ge  continued,  226 
6.  The  Traveller  ;  or,  a  prospect  of  society,  231 

8.  The  Traveller  continued,  235 

9.  The  vanity  of  hum  n  wishes,  241 
IP   T  ;,    x      ity  oi  human  wishes  continued;  245 

APPENDIX.  251 


SEQUE 

TO    THE 

ENGLISH 


PART  I.—  PIECES  JCV  PROSE* 

CHAPTER  I.—  NARRATIVE  PIECES. 

SFCTION  i.—  Religion  the  foundation  of  content.  An  Allegory. 

OMAR,  the  hermit  of  the  mountain  Aubukabis,  which  ris  s 
in  the  east  of  Mecca,  and  overlooks  the  city,  found  one  eve- 
ning a  man  sitting  pensive  and  alone,  within  a  few  paces  of 
his  cell.  Omar  regarded  him  with  attention,  and  perceived 
that  his  looks  were  wild  and  haggard,  and  that  his  body  vyasr 
^feeble  and  emaciated.  The  man  also  seemed  to  gaze  stead- 
fastly on  Omar;  but  such  was  the  abstraction  ol  his  mmd, 
that  his  eye  did  not  immediately  take  cognizance  of  its  ob- 
ject. In  the  moment  of  recollection  he  started  as  from  a 
dream  ;  he  covered  his  face  in  confusion  ;  and  bowed  him- 
self to  the  ground.  u  Son  of  affliction,"  said  Omar,  u  who 
art  thou,  and  what  is  thy  distress  ?''  u  My  name,"  replied 
the  stranger,  u  is  Hassan,  tind  I  am  a  native  of  this  city.  The 
angel  of  adversity  has  laid  his  hand  upon  me,  and  the  wretch 
whom  thine  eye  compassionates  thou  canst  not  deliver." 
"  Fo  deliver  thee,"  said  Omar,  a  belongs  to  HIM  only  from 
whom  we  should  receive  with  humility  both  good  and  evil/* 
yet  hide  not  thy  life  from  me  ;  for  the  burden  which  I  can- 
not remove,  I  may  at  least  enable  thee  to  sustain.'*  Hass^a 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  remained  some  time  si- 
lent ;  then  fetching  a  detp  sigh,  he  looked  up  at  the  hermit, 
and  thus  complied  with  his  request. 

kfc  it  is  now  six  years  since  our  mighty  lord  the  caliph  Al- 
malic,  whose  memory  be  blessed,  first  came  privauly  to  wor- 
ship in  the  temple  of  the  holy  city.  The  blessing  which  he 
petitioned  of  the  prophet,  as  the  prophet's  vicegerent,  he  \vas 
diligent  to  dispense.  In  the  intervals  of  his  devotion,  th  ir- 
forc,  he  went  about  the  city  relieving  distress  and  restrain- 

1 


ing  oppression  ;  the  widow  smilici  un-  ii  his  protection,  ;r  '1 
t!u  weakness  of  age  antl  iolanty;  w«s  hustaincd  n- 

t\  .      I,  who  duadvd    no  evd   ••u>    sick 

good    bcAonii    div    r  v;i,-ci  ot    n.\   labour,  \\  as    si&ignigju   my 
.  Alui.ilic    fiu-red  "m      iu  li.     lo   k   d 

:N.d  -uit.b  n  sin,!e  .jl  compile*  ucy  ;    i  . 

ii  was  mean,  it  \\  as  neat;  and  thoiiv>!i  i  v\  :is  poor,  i  ;rj>p«  tr- 
ed  to  be  conunl.  As  iiis  ruibil  v\  a^  i,i.,[  01  ;t  ;  i-g-  >Hl,  i  n  »s- 
teiKci  to  ntcivt  him  with  .such  ,  us  in  my 

powt  r  ;   and  m\   iheei  uci^ascd    tlran  re- 

stiinn-'.d  !>y  his  prisc-ncc.  c-»f- 

it    ,  he  askrd  me  man\  qu  ACTS 

I    liu-.iv  S  ctuk  ivourcd  in  .  ceiv- 

e,    iliat   he   grew  thou^nti'i.i,    •  vv.m   a  plicM  hut 

fixed  Attention.      I   SUSJK..-:  iu   h.«tl  smiu-  knowledge 

of  m<-,  and  th»  retort-  mquind  his  country  and  his  iruru'. 
"  Hassan,"  said  he,  kii  ha\\-  r-iscd  th\  curiosity,  and  it 
shall  he  satisfied:  he  u  ho  now  talks  with  thee.,  is  Aimnlic, 
th.-  sovereign  oi  the  i.mhiui,  whose  scat  is  tiv  throne  ot" 
Medina,  and  u  hos<  commission  is  from  ai>ov>  .  '  Th^se 
\vords  struck  me  dumb  with  astonishm-  nt,  though  1  had 
some  doubt  of  th  ir  truth:  but  Almalic  throwing  oaek  (.is 
ga,  tnent,  discovered  the  peculiarity  of  his  vest,  and  pm  he 
royal  signet  upon  his  fii-.gtr.  I  then  started  up,  and  was 
about  to  prostrate  m\  st  If  l>e(ore  him,  but  he  picvciite  m  : 
41  Hassan,1'  snid  he,  il  forbear:  thou  art  greater  than  I  ;  and 
from  thee  I  have  at  once  derived  humility  ana  \vi-ciom."  I 
answered,  "  Mock  not  thy  seivant,  who  is  but  a  worm  be- 
fore thee  ;  life  and  death  are  in  thv  hand,  and  happin.  ss  and 
misery  are  the  daughters:  of  thy  ^  ill."  "Hassm,"  he  re- 
plied, u  I  can  no  otherwise  give  life  and  happiness,  than  by 
not  taking  them  away:  thou  art  thyself  beyon  !  the  reach  of 
my  bounty  ;  and  possessed  of  felicity  which  I  can  neither 
communicate  nor  obtain  M  influence  over  oihers,  fills  my 
bosom  with  perpetual  solicitude  nnd  »nxietv  ;  and  yet  my  in- 
fluence over  others  extends  only  to  tueir  vic<  s,  whc  ther  I 
would  reward  •  .>r  punish.  By  the  br>v  •  mng  I  can  re  ress 
violence  and  fraud  ;  and  by  the  delegation  of  power,  I  can 
transfer  the  insatiable  wishes  of  avarice  and  ambition  horn 
one  object  to  another:  but  with  respect  to  virtue,  i  >m  un- 
poient;  ii  I  could  reward  it,  I  would  reward  it  in  thee.  Thou 


Narrative  Pieces.  & 

a»"  content,  and  hast  therefore  neitlur  av^rrce  nor  ambition. 
To  x  ilt  th  A-,  woul'l  destroy  th.  simplicity  o*  thy  life,  and 
diminish  that  tvipi^B^hich  1  have,  too  po  er^ivht-s  io -in- 
crease OP  to  coming  «ie  then  rose  up,  and  commanding 
me  not  to  disclose  fflPPcret,  departed. 

"  \s  soon  as  I  recovered  from  the  confusion  and  aston- 
i-h  nenr  in  which  tlv  caliph  left  me,  1  began  to  regret  that 
m\  heh  iviour  had  intercepted  his  bounty  ;  and  accused  that 
cheerfulness  of  follv  which  was  the  concomitant  of  poverty 
and  labour.  I  now  repined  at  the  obscurity  of  my  station^ 
\v;)ich  my  former  i ••sensibility  h  ul  perpetuated.  I  neglected 
my  labour,  because  I  despis  d  the  reward  ;  I  spent  the  d ::}< 
in  idleness,  forming  romantic  projects  to  recover  the  advan- 
t  -gts  which  I  had  lost :  and  at  night,  instead  of  losing  my- 
self in  that  svvcet  an  ;  refreshing  sleep,  from  which  I  used  ;Q 
rise  with  new  health,  cheerfulness,  and  vigour,  I  dreamed  of 
splendid  habits  and  a  numerous  retinu  ,  of  gardens,  palaces, 
feasting,  and  pleasures  ;  and  waked  only  to  regret  the  illu- 
sions that  had  vanished,  My  health  was  at  length  impaired 
by  the  inquietude  of  my  mind  ;  1  sold  all  my  moveables  for 
subsistence  ;  and  reserved  only  a  mattress,  upon  which  I 
sometimes  lay  from  one  night  to  another. 

"  In  the  first  moon  ot  the  following  year,  the  caliph  came 
again  to  Mecca,  with  the  same  secrecy,  and  for  the  same 
purposes.  He  was  willing  once  more  to  see  the  man,  whom, 
he,  considered  as  deriving  felicity  from  himself.  But  hci 
found  me,  not  singing  at  my  work,  ruddy  with  health,  vivid 
with  cheerfulness  ;  but  pale  and  dejected,  sitting  on  the 
ground,  and  chewing  opium,  which  contributed  to  substitute 
the  phantoms  of  imagination  for  the  realities  of  greatness, 
He  entered  with  a  kind  of  joyful  impatience  in  his  counte- 
nance, which,  the  moment  he  beheld  me,  was  changed  to  a 
mixture  of  wonder  and  pity.  I  had  often  wished  for  an- 
other  opportunity  to  address  the  caliph  ;  yet  I  was  confound- 
ed at  his  presence,  and,  throwing  myself  at  his  feet,  I  laid 
m\  hand  upon  my  head,  and  was  speechless.  u  Hassan," 
said  he,  wv  what  canst  thou  have  lost,  whose  wealth  was  the 
labour  of  thine  own  hand  ;  and  what  can  have  made  thee  sad, 
t:  spring  of  whose  joy  was  in  thine  own  bosom  ?  What  evil 
h.uh  M:  fallen  thrr  ?  ,eak<  and  if  I  can  remove  it,  thou  art 
happy.1'  I  was  now  encouraged  to  look  up,  and  I  replied. 


to  the  English 

iiy  lord,  forg;\t    the  presumption  of  his  sen  ant,  whc 
raiWc  Vhan.i  >;)d,  would  be  dumb  lor  ever,  1  am 

loss  of  that  which    I  never  p<, 

S  wj||^kdeed  I  am  not  wor- 
thy thou  shoulds  satisfy;  but  wh\B^:B  it  be  thought,  that 
h*  who  V)  .  ,  happy  in  obscurity  a^^Pfligence,  would  not 
have  been  rendered  more  happy  by  eminence  and  wealth.'* 

"  When    I    had  finished    this  speech,  Almaiic  stood  some 
moments  in  suspense-,  and  I  continued  prostru  him. 

44  Hassan/'  said  he,  UI  perceive,   not   with  indignationJ| 
regret,  that   I    mistook  thy   character.      1  now  dis<. 

•n   in   thy  heart,  which   ,vty   torpid   only  ^ 

.ere  too  remote   to  rouse  them.      I  can*- 

dot  therefore  invest  thee  with  authority,  because  I  would 
^abject  my  people  to  oppression  ;  and  becans-  I  would 
ompelled  to  punish  thee  for  crimes  which  I  tirst  i  n- 
x')led  thee  to  commit.  But  as  I  have  taken  from  thue  that 
vhicii  I  cannot  restore,  I  will  at  least  gratify  the  wishes -that 
I  excited,  lest  thy  heart  accuse  me  of  injustice,  and  thou 
continue  still  a  stranger  to  thyself.  Arise,  therefore,  and 
follow  me.'' — I  sprung  from  the  ground  as  it  were  with  the 
wings  of  an  eagle  ;  .1  kissed  the  hem  of  his  garment  in  an 
cctacv  of  gratitude' and  joy  ;  and  when  [  ;vr;.t  out  'A  \™ 
house,  my  heart  leaped  as  it  I  had  escaped  from  the  den  of 
a  lion.  I  followed  Almaiic  to  the  carav;  nsaiy  in  which  he 
lodged  ;  and  after  he  had  fulfilled  his  vows,  he  took  me  with 
him  to  Medina.  He  gave  me  an  apaitment  in  the  seraglio; 
I  was  attended  by  his  own  servants  ;  my  provisions  were 
sent  from  his  own  table  ;  I  received  every  week  a  sum  from 
his  treasury,  which  exceeded  the  most  romantic  of  m\  ex- 
pectations. But  I  soon  discovered,  that  no  dainty  was.  ^Q 
tasteful,  as  the  food  to  which  lal>our  procured  an  app^ 
no  slumbers  so  sweet,  as  those  which  weariness  invited  ;  and 
no  time  so  well  enjoyed,  as  that  in  which  diligence  is  expt-ct- 
ing  its  reward.  I  rentember  these  enjoyments  with  regret; 
and  while  I  was  sighing  in  the  midst  of  superfluities,  which, 
though  they  encumbered  life,  yet  I  could  not  give  up,  they 
^\  ere  suddenly  taken  away.  Almaiic,  in  the  midst  of  the 
glory  of  his  kingdom,  and  in  the  full  vigour  of  his  life,  ex- 
pn -  d  suddenly  in  the  bath:  such  thou  •  owest  was  the  des^ 
tiny  which  the  Almighty  had  written  upon  his  head* 


Narrative  Pieces,  1 1 

<c  His  son  Aububtkir,  who  succeeded  to  the  throne,  was 
incensed  against  me,  by  some  who  regarded  mi  at  onct  with 
contempt  and  envy.  He  suddenly  withdrew  my  pension, 
and  commanded  that  I  should  be  expelled  the  palace  ;  a  com- 
mand which  my  em  mies  executed  with  so  much  rigour,  th  >t 
within  twelve  hours  I  found  myself  in  the  streets  of  Medi- 
na, indigent  and  friendless,  exposed  to  hunger  and  d<  risi  n, 
wiih  all  the  habits  of  luxury,  and  all  ilu  sensibility  of  pride. 
Oh  !  let  not  thy  heart  despise  me,  thou  whom  experience  has 
not  taught,  that  it  is  misery  to  lose  that  which  it  is  not  hap- 
piness to  possess  Oh  !  that  for  me  this  lesson  had  not  been 
written  on  the  tablets  of  Providence !  1  have  travelled  from 
Medina  to  Mecca;  but  I  cannot  fly  from  myself.  How  dif- 
ferent are  the  states  in  which  I  have  been  placed!  The  re- 
membrance of  both  is  bitter  :  for  the  pleasures  of  neither  can 
return.'1— Hassan  having  thus  ended  his  story,  smote  his 
hands  together ;  and  looking  upwards,  burt  into  tears, 

*  >mur  having  waited  till  this  agony  was  past,  went  to  him, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  u  My  son,"  said  he,  "  more  is 
y«-t  in  th\  power  than  Almalic  could  give,  or  Aububekirtake 
away.  The  lesson  of  thy  life  the  prophet  has  in  mercy  ap- 
pointed m^  to  explain.0 

1  Thou  wast  once  content  with  poverty  and  labour,  only 
because  they  were  become  habitual,  and  ease  and  affluence 
were  placed  beyond  thy  hope;  for  whui  ease  and  affluence 
approached  thee,  thou  wast  content  with  poverty  and  labour 
no  more.  That  which  then  became  the  object,  was  also  the 
bound  of  thy  hope;  and  he,  whose  utmost  hope  is  disappoint?* 
ed,  must  inevitably  be  wretched.  If  thy  supreme  desire  h;*d 
been  the  delights  of  paradise,  and  thou  h  <d  believed  that,  by 
the  tenour  of  thy 'life,  these  delights  had  been  secured,  as 
more  could  not  b  vr  been  given  thee,  thou  wouldst  not  have 
r< -gritted  th  it  less  w->s  not  flfered.  The  content  which  was 
onc<>  enjoved,  was  but  the  lethargy  of  soul ;  and  the  distress 
which  is  now  suffered,  will  but  quick  n  it  to  action.  Depart, 
therefore,  and  be  thankful  for  all  th-n^s  ;  put  thy  trust  in 
Him,  who  alone  cm  gratifv  the  wish  of  reason,  and  satisfy 
thy  soul  with  gooJ  ;  fix  thy  hope  upon  that  portion,  in  com- 
parison of  which  the  world  is  as  the  drop  of  the  bucket,  and 
d..'S<  or  he  Manet.  Rvturu,  my  son,  to  thy  labour;  thy 
iood  shall  be  again  tasteful,  -nd  thy  rest  shall  be  ewet*;  to 


l^liffh  Reader.   - 

thy  content  also  will  be  added  stability,  when  it  depends  not 
upon  that  which  is  possessed  upon  earth,  but  upon  that  which 
is  expected  in  heaven." 

Hassan,  upon  whose  mind  the  angel  of  instruction  im- 
pressed tht  counsel  of  Omar,  hastened  to  prostrate  himself 
in  the  temple  of  the  prophet.  Peace  dawm  d  upon  his  mind, 
like  the  radiance  ot  the  morning:  he  returned  to  his  labour 
with  cheerfulness;  his  devotion  became  fervent  and  habitual; 
and  the  latter  days  of  Hassan  were  happier  than  the  first. 

DR.  JOHNSON. 

SECTION  ii. —  The  Vision  of  Mirza;  exhibiting  a  picture  of 
human  /rjr. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy,  after  h.tving 
Washed  myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  dovotions,  I  as- 
cended the  high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of 
the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer  As  I  was  here  refreshing 
myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  kll  into  a.  profound 
cont(  mplation  on  the  vanit\  of  hum.m  lite  ;  and  passing  from 
one  thought  to  anoth<  r,  Surely,  said  I,  man  is  but  a  shadow, 
and  Hie  a  dream1.  Whilst  i  was  thus  musing  I  cast  my  eyes 
towards  the  summit  of  a  rock  th;;t  u  as  not  far  from  me, 
where  I  discovered  one  in  the  habit  ot  a  shepherd,  but  who 
was  in  reality  a  being  of  superior  nature  .  I  <m-v\  near  with 
profound  r  verence,  and  fell  down  at  his  ti  et.  The  genius 
smiled  upon  mv  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability, 
that  familiarized  him  to  mv  imagination,  and  at  once  <ns- 
pelh  ,  all  the  tears  and  apprehensions  w.ith  v\  hich  T  up- 
prourhecl  him.  He  lifted  mo  from  the  ground,  and  taking 
m^  bv  the  hand,  Mirza,  s.sid  he,  1  have  heard  true  in  thy 
soliloquies;  follow  n\e. 

He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  i'./  the  rock  ;  and 
placing  m«  on  tht  top  ot"  it,  Cast  thv  eyes  eastward,  s.  »d  he, 
an-  tell  m.  wha»  thou  stest.  I  see,  saui  I,  a  huge  vail --y, 
and  a  prodigious  tide  of  *ater  nlling  hrough  it.  The  \  al- 
K  \  ihui  U>«  u  s\cst,  s-;id  he,  is  the  vai«-  ot  misery  ;  an  .  the 
ti.  e  ot  watev  that  thou  setst,  is  p  Jft  of  the  great  tide  oi  eur- 
n  .  What  i«-.  the  reason,  s-.iid  I,  thai  the  ii«ii  I  s<  e,  nses 
c»i-t(»fi  thick  rr»is  at  one  end,  nd  :r  <*in  loses  itselt  n>  a  (hick 
at  the  other:  W\*at  tauu  seeai,  said  he,  is  that  puiuon 


Narrative  PI 

of  eternity  \yhich  is  called  Time,  irreaaiired  out  by  the  sun, 
and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consum- 

?4m:ilion.  Examine  now,  said  he,  this  sea  that  'is  bounded  wuh 
c]  irk  ness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  ciiscov*.  rest  in 
it.  I  see  a  bridge,  said  I,  standing  in  the  midst  ot  the  tiue« 
The  bridge  thou  seest,  said  he,  is  human  life  ;  consider  it 

Attentively.  Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found 
that  it  consisted  of  threescoie  and  ten  entire  archi  s,  with  se- 
veral broken  arch;  s,  which,  add  d  to  those  that  were  entire, 
made  up  the  number  about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  counting 
the  arches,  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at 
first  of  a  thousand  ;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  ihe 
rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  be- 
held it.  But  tell  me  turthi-r,  said  he,  what  thou  discoverest 
on  it.  I  see  multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it,  s^id  I,  and 
a  black  cloud  hanging  on  each  ^nd  of  it.  As  I  looked  more 
attentively,  I  saw  several  of  th«.  passengers  dropping  through 
the  bridge  into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it :  and, 
upon  further  examination,  perceived  there  wire  innihuera- 
bie  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the  bridge,  which  ;thc 
passt  ngers  no  sooner  tr  d  upon,  than  they  i<  11  through  them 
into  the  tide,  and  imnrudiately  disappeared.  1'hest  hidden 
p;tialls  were  set  very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so 
that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud 

\  th ."«n  mam  fell  into  them.  Th  v  grew  thinner  towards  the 
middle,  bu»  multiplied  and  la\  closer  together  towards  the 
end  of  the  arenas  that  were  entire.  There  were  indred  ^ome 
ptrsons,  hut  tht  ir  number  was  ver\  sin  ill,  that  continued  a 
kind  ot  hobbling  march  on  the  hroke.n  <uches,  i.»iu  fch  through 
on*,  ifter  another,  being  quite  tired  and 'spent  with  so  long  a 
\valk. 

f  passed  some  time  in  the  contempLuio»»  of  this  wend  '  -ul 
structure,  and  th<  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  present- 
ed. Mv  heart  was  filled  with  a  d  «-p  I'ielan^.  h-jy,  to  see  se- 
v<  r.  1  dropping  uiRxp*.  ctedh  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jol- 
li:v,  and  catching  at  «-verv  thing  that  stood  by  them  to  save 
thrmsclvrs.  S()iue  wer?-  looking  u[^  cowards  the  heavens  in 
a  "•  aivhttul  posture,  and,  in  the  m«dst  ol  a  spectd  .  5, 
Stumbled  «nd  fell  out  of  si<>ht.  ?^ulri  u  us  w*  it-,  v^-rv  '  usy 
th.  pursuit  ).  *:'.ibhlr -.  d  in  their  t  .  e  .  -d 

danced  beiore   them :   but  oUcn  wiicn  they  thought  them- 


1*  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

selves  witlvn  'he  re:u  h  of  them,  their  lusting  failed,  and 
down  thcv  sunk.  In  this  conlu*»ioh  of  objects,  I  observed 
some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands,  an -1  otiu  rs  wim  win. »!.->, 
u  •  t  in  •  and  fro  upon  tin  bridg«  ,  thrusung  several  per- 
sons on  trap  door-)  which  did  not  seem  to  ii  in  tilth-  \ 
an-.l  which  ih<  v  m  ^hi  h  .ve  escaped  had  th<  y  not  been  tuns 
forced  upon  them. 

The  genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this   m  lancholy 
prospect,  told   me    I  had  dweh  long  enough  upon  i>.       Fake 
thine  eves  oil'  the  oridge,  said  he,  and  t  ll   me  if   thou  - 
am-  thing   thou   dost   not  compreh  nd.      Upon   looking  uj), 
\\rh.u  n  !   I,  those  great  flights  ot  buds  that  aac  ptr- 

p«-tn:ill\  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  strung  u,  on  it  iroin 
time  to  time  ?  I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens,  cormorants, 
and,  among  manv  oth  r  feathered  creatures,  several  little 
winded  hovs  that  perch  in  great  numbers  Vipon  the  mui.ilc 
arches.  Fh- st ,  stiil  us,  arc  env\ ,  avarice,  sup,  rsii  - 

tion,  despair,  love,  with  the  like  cares  -nu  j;assious  that  la- 
fest  human  lift  . 

I  here  fetci  ;>  sigh.      Al  is,  said  I,  mm  was  made 

in  v.iin  !  how  is  he  given  aua\  to  misery  and  mor  aiuy  !  tor- 
tur,  d  in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death!  The  gi  niu^  being 
nioved  with  compassion  towards  me,  bid  nu  quit  so  un*  •  ni- 
fortahK  a  prospect.  Look  no  more,  said  he,  uu  m.tn  in  the 
first  stagt  of  nis  exist'  nee,  in  his  selling  out  :or  eternity  ; 
thi>u-  eve  on  that  thi'  k  mist  into  winch  the  tide 
bears  the  several  generations  of  mortals  that  iall  into  it.  I 
dirt  cted  m\  sight  »s  I  was  ordered, and  (\vhtthcr  or  not  th« 
good  genius  strengthened  it  -./ith  any  suptrn;uu»,il  toict.,  or 
dissipated  p::rt  of  th<  mist  that  was  before  UK>  ihick  ior  the 
eye  to  pen- .trait-)  f  saw  th«-  v.ille)  op»  ning  at  the  farther  end, 
fcr  !5pr*  acting  forth  into  an  minK::se  ocean  thai  had  a  huge 
rock  of  ad*) ft) ant  running  through  th<  mi'-si  i  it  and  .ivid- 
i  i  into  two  t-qudl  {'-its  Tht  clouUs  ^tiil  re»t  on  »ne  half 
of  it,  insomuch  that  1  could  discover  nothing  in  it;  but  the 
othe>  appear-  cl  to  n»e  a  vast  «'Cenn,  plantr-a  u  ith  innunura- 
ble  islands,  thut  were  covered  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and 
inti  i-wo\in  win-  a  thousand  little  shining  seas  th.tt  ran  among 
their.  I  ronl<i  see  persons  dr<  ss*  tl  ii\  glorious  habits 
garlands  upoii  the'r  h  ads,  passing  ariion^-  thr  tre  s,  i\,  .  g 
down  by  me  MUCS  01  lountains,  or  rcbtiu^  on  Dtut>  oi  iiow- 


Narrative  Pieces.  15 

ers.  Gladness  grew  in  me  at  the  discovery  of  so  delightful 
a  sc^nt .  I  wished  lor  the  wings  of  an  eagle  that  I  uugh;  iiy 
av  av  to  those  happy  scats  ;  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was 
no  passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death  thttt 
I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge,  i  he  islands, 
saicl  he,  that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  beiore  thee,  and  with 
which  the  whole  {ace  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as 
thou  canst  seeT  are  more  in  number  than -the  sands  on  the 
sea-shore.  There  are  myriads  of  islands  behind  those  which 
thou  here  discovertst,  reaching  further  than  thine  eye,  or 
t\  en  thine  imagination,  can  extend  itseii.  I  liese  are  me 
mansions  of  good  men  alter  death,  who,  according  to  the 
degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are  dis- 
tributed among  these  several  islands,  which  abound  with 
pleasures  of  different  kinds  and  fiegiees,  suitable  to  the  re- 
lishes and  perfections  ot  those  who  are  settled  in  them:  eve- 
ry island  is  a  paradise  accommodated  to  its  respective  inha- 
bitants. Are  not  these,  O  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contend- 
ing for?  Does  life  appear  miserable,  that  gives  uiee  oppor- 
tunities of  earning  such  a  reward?  Is  death  to  be  feared, 
that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence  ?  Think  not 
man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has  sucti  an  eternity  reserved 
for  him. — I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on  these  hap- 
py islands.  At  length,  said  1,  show  me  now,  I  beseech  fh-  e, 
the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds,  which  cover 
the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant.  The 
genius  making  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to  address  myself 
to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  founa"  that  h.-  had  ieit  me.  I 
then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so  long 
contemplating  ;  but  instead  o/  th  roiling  tide,  the  arched 
bndge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  th-  long 
hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels,  graz- 
ing upon  the  sides  of  it.  ADDISON. 

SI.CTION   in — Endeavours  cf  mankind  to  get  rid  oj  their 
burdens ;  a  dream.* 

It  is  a  celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that  if  all  the  mis- 
fortunes of  mankind  were  cast  into  a  public  stock,  in  order  to 
be  equally  distributed  among  tile  whole  species,  those  who 

*  Dr.  Johnson  used  to  sa\,  t!iat  this  Kssay  of  Addison's  on  the  burdens 
ind,  was  the  most  exquisite  h<i  h*d  ever  read. 


16  ^  Serial  to  the  English  Reader. 

now  think   themselves  the  most   unhappv  ,  would   prefer 
shun-  they  art-  already  pn-  jorL-  th  u  whit 

f a  1    to  them    by   such  a   division.      Horace    h  «s   tarried    this 
thou    ;u  a   jrr.-at  deal   further:  he  savs  that  the   hardship 
nn~f  •  '"Mrs    which    we    lie  nndt-r,  are  more     asv   t:>  us   t;,  m 
thos<>  of  nny  ot'v  r  person  would  be,  in  case  w    c  )>»ld  change 
conditions  wirh  him. 

As  I  was  rir.»iiiating  on  these  two  remarks,  and  sear  d  in 
n^  ii,  I  insensibly  tell  Asleep,  when,  on  a  sudden, 

I  thought  there  was  a  proclamation  made  by  Jupiter,  that 
fv  iv  mortal  should  bring  in  his  grin's  and  calamities,  and 
throw  them  toother  in  a  heap.  The  re  was  a  l;jrg»-  plain 
appointed  lor  this  pu*poa£  I  took  inv  stand  in  the  cen- 
tre or'  it,  and  saw,  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  th*-  whole 
s  marrhing  one  at>  r  anotb  •',  and  throwing 
down  their  several  load*,  which  im  in-  l-at  Iv  err  w 
prodigious  mountain,  that  seemed  to  rise  above  the  clouds. 

Th.-re  was  a  certain  lady  of  a  thin  airy  shape,  who  w  as- 
very  active  in  this  solemnity.  She  carried  a  magnifying 
glass  in  one  of  her  hands,  and  was  clothed  in  a  loose  (lowing 
robe,  embroidered  with  several  figures  of  fiends  and  spec- 
tics,  ihat  discovered  themselves  in  a  thousand  chimerical 
shapes,  as  h-  r  garment  hovered  in  th<j  wind.  There  was 
something  wild  and  distracted  in  her  looks.  Her  name  was 
FANCY.  She  led  up  every  mortal  to  the  appointed  place, 
alter  having  verv  oftl  assisted  him  in  making  u: 

pack,  and   laying  it  upon   his   shoulders.      My   heart  m- 
within  me,  to  see  my   fellow-creatures  groaning  under  their 
respective   burdens,  and  to  consider  that  prodigious   bulk  of 
human  calamities  which  lav  before  me. 

There  were,  however,  several  persons  v.ho  give  me 
diversion  upon  this  occasion.  I  observed  one  bringing  in  u 
f.idel  ver\  carefully  concealed  under  an  old  embroidered 
cloak,  which,  upon  his  throwing  it  into  the  heap,  I  discover- 
ed to  be  Poverty .  Another,  after  a  great  deal  of  puffing, 
thr--vv  clnvn  his  iu^gig-.-,  which,  Ujr>n  exami.urtg,  I  tousv.i  lo 
be  his  wife. 

There  were  numbers  of  lovers  saddled  with  very  whim- 
sical burdens  composed  of  darts  and  flames  ;  but,  what  was 
very  odd,  though  the\  sighed  as  if  their  hearts  would  break 
under  these  bundles  of  calamities,  they  could  not  pe-rbiuuk 


themselves  to  cast  them  into  the  'neap,  when  th;jy  came  up 
to  it:  "Hi,  niter  a  lew  faint  eiiorts*  snook  then  ,1  a  i;^  ihid 
m Hichvd  away  as  heavy  laden  as  ilicy  cauu  .  i  \aa  uui'ti- 
tu  us  of  old  wormn  throw  down  their  wrinkles,  aiui  st  v  rid 
von!  g  ont  s  who  stripped  tru  ms<'Uvs  ol  a  launy  skin.  There 
Bvere  very  great  neaps  oi  rea  noses,  lar^c  lips,  and  rusty 
teeth.  I'he  truth  of  it  is,  1  was  surpn-vd  to  sre  the  gi eat- 
er part  of  the  moumain  made  up  of  bodily  determine-..  Or>- 

ivmg  one  advanding  towaids  the  heap,  with  a  larger  car- 
go than  ordinary  upon  his  back,  I  lound,  ayon  his  near  ap- 
proach, that  it  was  only  a  natural  hump,  wnuh  he  disposed 
of,  with  great  joy  ot  heart,  among  this  collection  oi  hum.in 
miseries.  There  were  likewise  distempers  oiall  sorts  ;  though 
I  could  not  but  observe,  that  there  were  many  more  imagi- 
nary tliHii  re.il.  One  little  packet  I  could  not  but  take  no- 
tice oi,  which  was  a  complication  of  all  the  diseases  incident 
to  human  nature,  and  was  in  th.  hand  of  a  great  many  fine 
people  :  this  was  called  the  Spleen.  But  what  most  of  all 
surprised  me,  was  a  remark  I  made,  that  there  was  not  a  sin- 
gle vice  or  folly  thrown  into  the  whole  heap  ;  at  which  1  was 
very  much  astonished,  having  concluded  within  myself,  that 
every  one  would  take  this  opportunity  of  getting  rid  of  his 
passions,  prejudices,  and  frailties. 

I  took  notice  in  particular  oi  a  very  profligate  fellow,  who 
I  did  not  question  came  loaded  with  his  crimes  :  but  upon 
searching  his  bundl; ,  I  found  that,  instead  of  throwing  his 
guilt  irom  him,  he  had  only  laid  down  hiarmemory.  H  was 
followed  by  another  worthless  rogu.--,  who  flung  away  his 
modesty  instead  of  his  ignoranc  . 

When  the  whole  race  of  mankind  had  thus  cast  their  bur- 
dens, tne  phantom  which  had  been  so  busy  on  this  occasion, 
seeing  me  an  idle  spectator  of  what  had  passed,  approached 
towards  me.  I  grew  uneasy  at  her  presence,  when  of  a 
sudden  she  held  her  magnifying  glass  full  before  my  eyes. 
I  no  soi.-n-r  saw  my  race  in  it,  but  I  was  st  rtled  t  the  short- 
ness of  ir,  wniv  h  now  appeared  to  me  in  its  utmost  aggrava- 
tion. ]>,e  imaiodeiMte  br<-,icith  of  the  features  mad,  me 
Vcrv  much  out  of  humour  with  my  own  countenance  ;  upon 
which  I  threw  it  from  me  like  a  mask.  It  happened  very 
luckily,  that  one  who  stood  by  me  had  just  beiore  tnrown 
down  his  visage,  which  it  seems  was  too  lo  g  for  hi.n.  It 
v/as  indted  extended  to  a  most  shameful  length  ;  1  believe 


18  the  P  ngSfth  Reader. 

the  jgrv  chin  was  modestly  speaking  as  long  as  my  wh  )lf 
far  .  We  had  both  of  us  :m  opportunity  of  mending  o  r 
stives  ;  ana  all  the  contributions  being  now  biou^ht  in,  eve- 
r\  man  was  at  liberty  to  exchange  his  misfortunes  lor  those 
pt  another  person.  But  as  there  arose  manv  new  incidents 
in  th  sequel  o!'  my  vision,  I  shall  reserve  them  for  the  sub- 
ject of  my  next  paper.  / 

SECTION   iv. — The  .same  subject  continued. 

In  mv  last  p;«per,  I  gave  mv  reader  a  sight  of  that  moun- 
tain ol  miseries,  which  was  m  i'le  up  of  those  several  calami- 
ties that  aiHict  the  minds  of  m.-n.  I  saw,  with  unspeakable 
pleasure,  the  whole  sptcies  thus  delivered  from  its  sorrows  ; 
though,  at  the  same  time,  as  we  stood  round  the  heap,  and 
surveyed  the  several  materials  of  which  it  was  composed, 
there  was  scarcely  a  mortal,  in  this  vast  multitude,  who  did 
not  discover  what  he  thought  pleasures  of  life  ;  and  wonder- 
eu  how  the  owners  of  them  ever  came  to  look  upon  them  as 
burdens  and  grievances. 

As  we  were  regarding  very  attentively  this  confusion  of 
miseries,  this  chaos  of  calamity,  Jupiter  issued  out  a  second 
proclamation,  that  every  one  was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange 
his  affliction,  and  to  return  to  his  habitation  with  any  such 
other  bundle  as  should  be  delivered  to  him. 

Upo:.  this,  FANCY  began  again  to  btstir  herself,  snd,  par- 
celling out  the  whole  heap  with  incredible  activity,  recom- 
mended to  every  one  his  particular  packet.  The  hurry  and 
contusion  at  this  time  were  not  to  be  expressed.  Sou.*-  ob- 
servations which  I  made  upon  this  occasion,  I  shall  commu- 
nicate to  the  public.  A  venerable  gray-headed  man,  who 
had  laid  clown  the  colic,  and  who  1  found  wanted  an  heir  to 
his  estate,  snatched  up  an  undutitul  son,  that  had  br<  n 
thrown  into  the  heap  by  an  angry  father.  The  graceless 
youth,  *n  less  than  a  quarter  of  hour,  pulled  the  old  gen  le- 
man  by  the  beard,  and  like  to  have  knocked  his  brains  oui ; 
so  that  meeting  the  true  father,  who  came  towards  him  with 
a  fir  of  the  gripes,  he  begged  him  to  take  his  son  again,  and 
give  him  back  his  colic  ;  but  they  were  incapable  eitrur  of 
them  to  recede  from  the  choice  they  had  made.  A  po=.r 
grilley  slave,  who  had  throun  down  his  chains,  look  up  t^e 
gout  in  their  stead,  but  made  such  wr>  laces,  that  one 


Narrative  Pieces.  19 

easily  perceive  he  \v;is  no  great  gainer  by  the  bargain.  It 
\v  .s  pl<  as.iiu  enough  to  see  the  several exchanges  that  were 
mad-  tor  sickness"  agamst  poverty,  hunger  against  want  of 
appetite,  and  care  against  pain. 

The  female  world  were  very  busy  among  themselves  in 
bartering  for  features  ;  one  was  trucking  a  lock  ol  gray  hairs 
for  a  carbunkh  ;  and  another  was  making  <-«ver  a  short  waist 
for  a  pair  of  round  shoulders  ;  and  a  third  cheapening  a  bad 
face  for  a  lost  reputation  :  but  on  all  these  occasions,  there 
\vas  not  one  of  them  who  did  not  think  the  new  blemish, 
as  soon  as  she  had  got  it  into  her  possession,  much  more 
disagreeable  than  the  old  one.  I  made  the  same  observa- 
tion on  every  other  misfortune  or  calamity,  which  every 
one  ifi  the  assembly  brought  upon  himself,  in  lieu  ot  what 
he  had  parted  with  ;  whether  it  be  that  all  the  evils  which 
befall  us  are  in  some  measure  suited  and  proportioned  to 
our  strength,  or  that  every  evil  becomes  more  supportable 
by  our  being  accustomed  to  it,  I  shall  not  determine. 

I  could  not  for  mv  heart  forbear  pitying  the  poor  hump- 
backed gentleman,  mentioned  in  the  former  paper,  who 
went  off  a  very  well-shaped  person  wich  a  stone  in  his  blad- 
der ;  nor  the  fine  gentleman  who  had  struck  up  this  bargain 
with  him,  that  limped  through  a  whole  assembly  ol  ladies 
who  used  to  admire  him,  with  a  pair  of  shoulders  peeping 
over  his  head. 

I  must  not  omit  my  own  particular  adventure.  My 
friend  with  the  long  visage  had  no  sooner  taken  upon  him 
my  short  face,  but  he  made  so,grotesque  a  figure,  th  -t  as 
I  looked  upon  him  I  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  m\  self, 
insomuch  that  I  put  my  own  face  out  6f  countenance.  The 
poor  gentlem  m  was  so  sensible  of  the  ridicule,  that  I  found 
he  was  ashamed  of  what  he  had  done  :  on  the  other  side,  I 
found  that  I  myself  had  no  great  reason  to  triumph,  for  as 
I  went  to  touch  mv  forehead  I  missed  the  plate,  and  clas- 
ped my  finger  uj"  n  my  upper  lip.  Besides,  as  my  nose 
was  exceedingly  prominent,  I  gave  it  two  or  three  unlucky 
knocks  as  I  was  playing  my  hand  about  my  face,  and  aim- 
ing at  some  other  part  ot  it.  I  saw  two  other  gentlem.  n  by 
me,  who  were  in  the  same  ridiculous  circurltsian  es.-— 
These  had  made  a  foolish  exchange  between  a  couple  of 


20  Sequel  to  the  English  Pea 

thick  bandy  legs,  and  t»vo  long  trap  sticks  that  had  ne 
cal v os  to  them.  One  of  these  looked  like  a  man  walking 
upon  stilts,  and  was  so  lifted  up  into  the  air,  above  his  or- 
dinar\  height,  that  his  head  turned  round  with  it;  while 
tht.  other  made  so  awkuard  circles,  as  he  attempted  to 
walk,  that  he  scarcely  kiuw  how  to  move  torward  upon  his 
new  supporters.  Observing  him  to  be  a  pleasant  kind  of 
fellow,  I  stuck  my  cain  in  the  ground,  and  told  him  1  would 
lay  him  a  bottle  of  wine,  that  he  did  not  march  up  to  it,  on 
a  line  that  I  drew  for  him,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two  sexes, 
who  made  a  most  piteous  Mght,  as  they  wandered  up  and 
down  under  the  pressure  of  their  several  burdens.  The 
whole  plain  was  filK  d  with  murmurs  and  complaints,  groans 
and  lamentations.  Jupiter,  at  length,  taking  Compassion  on 
the  poor  mortals,  ordered  them  a  second  time  to  lay  down 
their  loads,  with  a  design  to  give  every  one  his  own  again. 
They  discharged  themselves  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure: 
after  which,  the  phantom  who  had  led  them  into  such  gross 
delusions,  was  commanded  to  disappear.  There  was  sent 
in  her  stead  a  goddess  of  a  quite  diflf} 

tio.js  were  steady  and  composed,  and  hi  r  as  .  :uus  but 

cheerful.      Sir-  <  '.  and  then  cast   hei   eyes  towards 

hi  .:v.-n  and  fixed  tlu-r.i  upon  Jupiter:  her  name  was  I'A- 
ri  NCE.  She  had  no  sooner  placed  herself  by'the  Mount  of 
S  <r>ws,  but,  what  I  thought  very  re.markahle.,  the  whole 
h<  ap  sunk  to  such  a  degree,  that  it  did  t  a  third 

pan  so  big  as  it  was  before.  She  afterwards  returned  every 
m/n  his  own  proper  calamity,  and,  teaching  him  how  to 
bear  it  in  the  most  commodious  manner,  he  marchtd  off 
with  it  contentedly,  being  ver\  well  pUased  that  he  had  nut 
been  left  to  his  own  choice,  as  to  the  kind  of  evils  winch 

fell  to  his  lot. 

Besides  the  several  pieces  of  morality  to  he  drawn  out  c 
this  vision,   I   learned   from  it  never  toCepine  at  my  own 
misfortunes,  or  to  envy  the  happiness  of  another,  since  it  is 
imnossible  for  any  wan  to  form  a  right  judgment  of  his 
n^  labour's  sufferings;   for  which  reason  also.  I  have  de- 
termined never  to  think  too  lightly  of  another's  complaints, 
bu'.  to  regard  the  sorrows  of  my  fellow-creatures  with 
timents  of  humanity  and  compassion.  ADDISOV. 


ur  rathe  Plei . 

SECTION  v. —  The  Vision  of  A  Inn:  t. 

Fortune  her  gifts  may  variously  dispose; 
A;ul  these  be  happy  call'd,  unhappy  those  ; 
But  Heaven's  just  balance  equal  will  appear, 
While  those  are  piac'd  in  J,Iope,  and  these  in  Fear. 

ALMET,  the-  dervise,  who  watched  the  sacred  lai* •;»  in 
the  si-pulcre  of  the  prophet,  as  he  one  day  rose  up  from  the 
d  wot  ions  of  the  morning,  winch  he  had  performed  at  the 
gate  of  the  temple,  with  his  body  turmd  towards  the  tast, 
and  his  forehead  on  the  earth,  saw  before  him  a  man  in 
splendid  apparel,  attended  by  a  long  retinue,  who  gaz,-d 
stedfastly  on  him,  with  a  look  of  mournful  complacency, 
and  seemed  desirous  to  speak,  but  unwilling  to  offend. 

The  dervise,  after  a  short  silence,  advanced,  and  salut-,. 
ing  him  with  calm  dignm  which  independence  confers  up- 
on humility,  requested  that  he  would  reveal  his  purpose. 

ik  Almet,"  said  the  stranger,  u  thou  seest  before  thee  a 
man  whom  the  hand  of  prosperity  has  overwhelmed  with 
wretchedness.  Whatever  I  once  desired  as  the  means  of 
happiness,  I  now  possess;  but  I  am  not  yet  happy,  and 
therefore  I  despair.  I  regret  the  lapse  of  time,  because  it 
glides  away  without  enjoyment ;  and  as  I  expect  nothing  in 
the  future  but  the  vanities  of  the  past,  i  do  not  wish  that 
the  future  should  arrive.  Yet  I  tremble  lest  it  should  be  cut 
off;  and  my  heart  sinks,  when  I  anticipate  the  moment  in 
which  eternity  shall  close  over  the  vacuity  of  my  life,  like 
the  sea  upon  the  path  of  a  ship,  and  leave  no  traces  of  my 
existence  more  durable  than  the  furrow  which  remains  af* 
ter  the  waves  have  united.  If  in  the  treasures  of  thy  wis- 
dom, there  is  any  precept  to  obtain  felicity,  vouchsafe  it  to  • 
m-1.  For  this  purpose  I  am  come  :  a  purpose  which  yet  I 
feared  to  reveal,  lest,  like  all  the  former,  it  should  be  dis- 
appointed." Almet  listened  with  looks  of  astonishment  and 
pity,  to  this  complaint  of  a  being,  in  *whom  reason  was 
known  to  be  p  pledge  of  immortality  :  but  the  serenity  of 
his  countenance  soon  returned  ;  and  stretching  out  his 
h-mds  towards  heaven,  a  Stranger,"  said  he,  u  the  know- 
ledge which  I  have  received  from  the  prophet,  I  will  com- 
municate to  thee. 

As  I  was  sitting  one  evening  at  the  porch  of  the  temple? 


$2  Seqi^l  to  the  Xnglixh  Reader. 

pensive  and  alone,  my  e^je  wandered  among  the  multitude 
thuwas  -cattered  Ix  fore  mr  ;  .1IK1  u-hiic  1  rema/ked  the 
\ve.;rinc-s3  and  solicitude  which  were  visible  in  >in- 

tenanc<  ,  I  was  suddenly  struck  with  a  sens-,  of  their  condi- 
iiou  W»\tchcd  mortals,  said  1,  to  \vhai  purpose  art-  YOU 
busy:  It  to  prouiice  happmess,  by  \\  horn  is  't  enjoyed?  Do 
the  linens  of  Kgvpt,  >ilks  .-I  Persia,  bestow  felicity 

on  those  \\  hu  Wi  ar  llu-m,  t  cjual  to  tilt-  wi>  tchedness  of  von- 
der-l  i\  .ding  the  caimLs  that  brine;  thtTv.? 

Is  the  fineness  ol  the  trxiun,'oi  t  >e  splendour  of  the  tints, 
n-g.-irdi-d  with  ddi^ht  hv  tbo.e,  to  whom  custom  ha3  r.  i^- 
dtred  thvm  iain'di  ?  -r  can  the  power  of  habit  renter 
others  insensible  oi  j-  »  live  onl\  to  traverse  the  cfe- 

sert ;  a  srt-n.-  oi  dr.  adtui  umionniiv,  where  a  barren  level 
xinded  onl\  In  thi  b^n/.'.n  ;  where  no  change  of  pros- 
pect, or  vari  ty  ol  images,  nhvvrs  the  tra\elkrs  frni  a 
of  toil  and  danger  ;  of  whnluinds  which  in  a  m(;ment 
may  bury  him  in  dv  s  :nd,  and  «»i  thirst  w)»i.  h  the  \v«  -dthy 
n  h  It  thi-ir  possessions  to  aila\  ?  D.  thosr  on 
whom  ber«  ditarv  diamonds  sparki«.-  v\  ith  unregarded  lustie, 
gain  from  the  possession  what  is  lost  by  the  w  re  tin  who 
st\ks  t'HMti  in  the  mine  ;  who  lives  excluded  from  the  com- 
mon bounties  oJ  nature  ;  to  whom  even  the  vicissitude  of 
day  and  night  is  not  known  ;  who  sighs  in  iperpetual  dark- 
ness, and  whose  lift-  is  one  mournful  alternative  of  insensi- 
bility and  labour?  It  those  are  not  happy  who  possess,  in  • 
proportion  as  those  ure  wretched  who  bestow,  how  vain  a  * 
dream  is  the  life  of  man  !  And  if  there  is,  indeed,  such  dif- 
iVrence  in  the  value  of  existence,  how  shall  we  acquit  of 
partialiu  the  hand  by  which  this  difference  has  been  made? 
While  my  thoughts  thus  multiplied,  and  my  heart  burn- 
ed within  mc%  I  became  sensible  of  a  sudden  influence  from 
above.  The  streets  and  the  crowds  of  Mecca  disappeared, 
I  found  mysr  if  sitting  on  the  declivity  of  a  mountain,  and 
perceived  at  my  right  hand  an  ang«  1,  whom  I  knew  to  be 
Azoran,  the  minister  of  reproof.  When  I  saw  him,  1  was 
ai'uiid.  I  cast  mv  eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  was  about  to 
deprecate  his  anger,  when  he  commanded  me  to  be  sile.u. 
*c  -.Irnet,"  said  he,  "  thoii  hast  devoted  thy  lite  to  medita- 
tion, that  th\  counsel  might  deliver  ignorance  from  the 
ol  error,  and  deter  presumption  from  the  precipice 


Narrative  Pieces*  23 

of  guilt ;  but  the  book  oi  nature  t^mi  hast  read  without  un- 
derstanding :  It  is  again  open  before  thee  :  look  up,  consi- 
der it,  and  be  wise." 

I  looked  up,  and  beheld  an  enclosure,  beautiful  as  the 
gardens  of  paradise,  but  of  a  small  extent.  Through  the 
middle,  there  >vas  A  green  walk  ;  at  the  end,  a  wild  desertj 
and  beyond,  impenetrable  darkness.  The  walk  was  shaded 
with  trees  of  every  kind,  that  were  covered  at  once  wi  h 
blossoms  and  fruit ;  innumerable  birds  were  singing  in  the 
branches;  the  grass  was  intermingled  with  flowers,  which 
impregnated  the  breez"  with  fragrance,  and  painted  the 
path  with  beauty.  On  the  one  side  flowed  a  gentle  transpa- 
rent stream,  which  was  just  heard  to  murmur  over  the.  gol- 
den sands  that  sparkled  at  the  bottom  ;  and  on  the  other, 
were  walks  and  bowers,  fountains,  grottos  and  cascades, 
which  diversified  the  scene  with  endless  variety,  but  did 
not  conceal  the  bounds. 

While  I  was  gazing  in  a  transport  of  delight  and  wonder 
on  this  enchanting  spot,  I  perceived  a  man  stealing  along 
the  walk  with  a  thoughtful  and  deliberate  pace.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  earth,  and  his  arms  crossed  on  his  bo- 
som ;  he  sometimes  started  as  if  a  sudden  pang  had  seiz  d 
him;  his  countenance  expressed  solicitude  and  terror;  he 
locked  round  with  a  sigh,  and  having  gazed  a  moment  *-n 
the  desert  that  lav  before  him,  he  seemed  as  if  he  wished 
to  stop,  but  was  impelled  forward  by  some  invisible  power. 
His  features,  however,  soon  settlrd  again  into  a  calm  me- 
lancholy ;  his  eyes  were  again  fixed  on  jthe  ground,  and  he 
went  on  as  before,  with  apparent  reluctance,  but  without 
emotion.  1  was  struck  with  his  appearance ;  and  turning 
hastily  to  the  angel,  was  about  to  inquire,  what  could  pro- 
duce such  infelicity  in  a  being,  surrounded  with  every  ob- 
ject that  could  gratify  every  sense ;  but  he  prevented  my 
request :  u  The  book  of  nature-,"  said  he,  fc4  is  before  thee ; 
look  up,  consider  it,  and  be  wise."  I  looked,  and  beheld  a 
v.iiley  between  two  mountains  that  were  craggy  and  barren. 
On  the  path  there  was  no  verdure,  and  the  mountains  af- 
forded no  shade  ;  the  sun  burned  in  the  zmith,  and  every 
spring  was  dried  up  :  but  the  valley  terminated  in  a  country 
th;»t  was  plea°ant  and  fertile-,  shadrd  with  woods,  and  adorn* 
&d  with  buidings.  At  a  second  view,  1  discovered  a  tnafc 


Sequel  to  the  English  Reader* 

in  this  valley,  meagre  indeed  and  naked,  but  his  counte- 
nance was  cheerful,  and  his  deportment  active  He  kept  his 
eye  fixed  upon  the  country  before  him,  and  looked  as  if  he 
would  have  run,  but  that  he  was  restrained,  as  the  other 
had  been  impelled,  bv  some  secret  influence.  Someiim/s, 
indeed,  I  p<  rceived  a  sudden  expression  ol  pain,  and  some- 
times hi  stepped  short  as  if  his  foot  was  pierced  by  the  as- 
perities of  the  way  ;  but  the  sprightliness  of  his  countenance 
instantly  returned,  and  he  pressed  forward  without  appear- 
ance of  repining  or  complaint. 

I  turned  again  towards  the  angel,  impatient  to  inquire 
from  what  secret  source  happiness  was  derived,  in  a  situa- 
tion so  different  from  that  in  which  it  might  h;ive  been  t  K- 
ptcted;  but  he  again  prevented  my  request :  "Almet,'* 
saul  he,  "  remember  what  thoti  hast  seen,  and  let  this  r.io 
znoiial  be  written  upon  the  tablets  of  th\  heart.  Re  UK  m- 
ber,  Almet,  that  the  world  in  which  thou  art  placed,  is  but 
thr  road  to  another;  and  that  happine*-  depends  not  upon 
the  path,  but  the  end.  The  value  of  this  period  ot  thy  ex- 
isunce,  is  fixed  by  hope  and  fear.  The  wretch  who  wish,  d 
to  linger  in  the  garden,  who  looked  round  upon  its  limits 
with  terror,  was  destitute  of «  njoyment, because  he  was  des- 
titute ot  hope,  and  was  perpetually  tormented  by  the  dread 
of  losing  that  which  yet  he  did  not  enjoy.  Thr  song  of  me 
birds  had  been  repeated  till  it  was  not  heard,  and  the  flow- 
ers had  so  often  recurred,  that  their  beauty  was  not  seen  ; 
the  river  glided  by  unnoticed,  and  he  fean-d  to  lift  his  eye 
to  the  prosp<  ct,  lest  he  should  behold  the  waste  that  circum- 
scribed it.  But  he  that  toiled  through  the  valley  was  happy, 
because  he  looked  forward  with  hope.  Thus,  to  the  sojourn- 
cr  upon  earth,  it  is  of  little  moment  whether  the  p.  >.h  he 
tr-  ads  be  strewed  with  flow*  rs  or  with  thorns,  if  he  perceives 
himself  to  approach  those  regions,  in  comparison  of  which 
.horns  and  the  flowers  of  this  wilderness  lose  their  ciis- 
tim<ion,and  are  both  alike  impotent  to  give  pleasure  or  pain. 

k  Wiiat  then  ha?  eternal  wisdom  un-  quaily  distribute  d  ? 
r:..tt  \vhich  can  make  every  station  happy,  and  wit  -<>.it 
s\.;ieh  every  station  must  be  wretch*  .,  is  acquired  b\  vir- 
tu. ;  and  virtue  is  possible  to  all.  K<  member,  Almet,  the 
vision  vbich  thou  h;»st  seen;  and  Je:  my  words  hc  w  '  it- 
3  n  ,n  ;.'.  :-ibl,  t  </.  th\  heart,  thai  ihou  max  st  direct  the 
to  happiness,  and  ju&uiy  God  to  man. ' 


Narrative  Pieces*  25 

While  the  voice  of  Azoran  was  yet  sounding  in  my  ear, 
the  prospect  vanished  irom  before  me,  and  I  found  myself 
again  sitting  at  the  porch  of  the  temple.  The  sun  was  gone 
down,  the  multitude  was  retired  to  rest,  and  the  solemn 
quiet  of  midnight  concurred  with  the  resolution  ol  my 
doubts,  to  complete  the  'Tanquility  of  my  mind. 

Such,  my  son,  was  the  vision  which  the  prophet  vouch- 
safe (i  me,  not  for  my  sake  only,  but  for  thuu  .  Thou  hast 
sought  felicity  in  temporal  things;  and  therefore  thou  art 
disappointed.  Let  n  <t  instruction  be  lost  upon  thet  ;  but 
go  thy  wav  ,  let  thy  flock  clothe  the  naked,  and  thy  table 
feed  the  hungry  ;  deliver  the.  poor  from  oppression,  and  let 
thy  conversation  be  *bove.  Thus  shah  thou  ki  njoic,  in 
hope,"  and  look  forward  to  the  end  of  life,  as  the  consum- 
mation of  thy  t  licity 

Almet,  in  whose  breast  devotion  kindled  as  he  spoke,  re- 
turned into  the  temple,  and  the  stranger  departed  m  p,  ace* 

HAWKtSWOKTH, 


SECTION   vi.  —  'Religion  and  Superstition  contrasted, 
A  Vision. 

I  had  lately  a  very  remarkable  dream,  which  ma  le  so 
-strong  an  impression  on  me,  that  I  remember  every  word  of 
it  ;  and  ii  you  are  not  better  ern  Cloyed,  you  ma}  read  the 
relation  of  it  as  follows. 

I  thought  {  was  in  the  midst  of  a  very  entertaining  set 
of  companv  and  extn-nn.  ly  delighted  in  attending  to  a  II  ve- 
.ly  conservation,  wh,  .n  on  a  sudden,  I  perceived  one  of  the 
most  shocking  figures  that  imagination  can  frame,  advan- 
cing towards  me.  She.  \v:.s  dresst-d  in  black,  her  sk>n  was 
contracted  into  a  thousand  urnkles,  her  eves  deep  sunk  in 
he?  head,  and  her  complexion  pale  and  livid  as  the  counte- 
narue  of  death.  Her  looks  were  filled  with  terror  and  uo 
rc  It  min^  se\t-ric\,  and  her  hands  armed  with  whips  and 
3?  o  pions.  As  soon  as  she  cam-  near,  with  a  horrid  irown, 
and  .  voice  that  chilled  my  vt  ry  blood,  shr  bad*  me  follow 
her,  1  obeyed,  and  she  led  me-  through  rugged  paths,  »e- 
s<.  i  with  briers  ;;nd  thorns,  i  to  a  deep  solitary  v  11.  -y. 
Wherever  she  passtal,  ihe  i,  dnig  verdure  withe  red  I)  u.  /rri 
her  bieps  j  her  pestilential  breath  infected  the  air  with  ma- 


,'U'l  to  the  . 

vapours,  obscured  the  lustn  of  the  sun,  and  involv- 
ed the  tair  lace  of  In-  tven  with  ui  ;;luo:n.  Dismal 
bowlines  resounded  through  the  ion  st  ;  from  every  baleful 

i    h?s   dreadful   note  ;  and    the 

prospect  v  as  filled  with  rirsolatiun  and  horror.  In  the 
midst  of  tir-  •  lous  scene,  my  execrable  guide  addres- 

sed me  in  the.  following  manner. 

"Retire  with   m--,  ()  rash,  unthinking  mortal!  from   the 
vain  allurements  of  a  deceitful  world  ;  and  1  am  that  plea- 
sure was   not   designed    the    portion  of  human   life.      Man 
w.  s  born  to  mourn  and   to   be  wretched.       This  is  the  con- 
of  ail    l)i  low  i  :  and  \vho-ever  endeavour^  to 

ts  in  contradiction  to  the  will  of  heaven.      Fly 
tl.en   fro  *  ii.imenfs  of  youth  and  social 

•  i,  and  lv  the  solitary  hours  to  lamentation 

and  wo.       ?'  of  all  sublunary  beings;  and 

njoymeot  D<  ity,  who  is  to  be 

tiu*   mortification  of  even    sen  e  of 
lire,  and  the  evu  lasting  ex  -rcise  of  sighs  and  tears. ^ 
This   rrn  picture  oi   lite   cjuite   sunk    my   sp>rits 

i-.ied  to  aiinihilai.-  ever)   p'  -^   }>\>\t  of  'joy  wi  hin  me, 
I   th  .1   blastd  yew,  where  the  winds 

w  cold  and  dismal  round  my  head,  and  dreadful  appre- 
hensions chilled  my  heart.  lie-re  I  resolved  to  lie  till  the 
icj  of  dtuth,  which  I  impatiently  invoked,  should  put  an 
t-nd  to  the  miseries  ot  a  life  so  deplorably  wretched.  in 
this  sad  situation  I  espied  on  one  hand  of  me  a  deep  mud- 
d\  iiver,  whose  hea\  v  u  ..  d  on  in  slow  .sullen  mur- 

murs. Her.  I  determined  to  plunge  ;  and  wits  just  upon 
the  brink,  when  I  found  mysrlf  suddenly  drawn  back.  I 
tumed  about,  and  was  surprised  by  the  sight  of  the  loveli- 
est object  I  had  ever  beheld-  The  most  engaging  charms 
o!  youth  and  beauty  appeared  in  all  her  form  ;  effulgent 
glories  sparkled  in  her  e\  es,  and  their  awful  splendours 
\vc-ic  softened  by  the  gentlest  looks  of  compassion  and 
peace.  At  !ur  approach,  the  frightful  spectre,  who  had 
In  lore  tormented  im ,  vanished  away,  and  with  her  all  the 
horrors  she  ha  i  cau-e  ,  The  gloomy  clouds  brightened  in- 
to checrml  sunshine,  tr.r  grovts  recovered  their  verdure, 
and  the  whole  region  loukrd  gay  and  blooming  as  tht  gar- 
den ol"  Eden,  i  was  quite  transported  at  this  unexpec- 


Narrative  Pieces.  27 

ted  change,  and  reviving  pleasure  b.  gan  to  gladden  my 
thoughts  ;  when  with  a  look  of  in;  xpressible  sweetness,  my 
beauttous  deliverer  thus  utt»  red  her  diviiu  instructions. 

k'  IVjy  name  is  Hi  LIG ION-  I  am  the-  offspring  of  TRUTH 
an'  Jv  VE.  and  the-  pan  nt  of  Bi  NF.VOLI  NCE.  HOPK  ;  ud 
Joy  I  hat  monster,  from  \\hosc  power  I  h *v  Irt-t-d  \  on, 
is  .  lied  SUPI  RSTITION  :  shu  is  tin  •  h;!d  of  DISCONTENT, 
and  her  followers  are  FEAR  and  SORROW.  Thus,  .:ift</;v  nt 
as  we  are, sh  has  often  th  in^oleao-  to  assume  my  name 
and  character  ;  and  seduces  unhappy  mortals  to  think  us 
th,  s  -me,  till  she,  at  length,  drives  '-h'-m  to  the  borders  of 
DESPAIR,  that  dreadful  abyss  into  which  you  wire  just 
going  to  sink." 

"  Look  round,  and  survey  the  various  beauties  ot  the 
globe,  which  heaven  has  destined  for  the  seat  of  the  human 
r.-cc  ;  and  consider  whether  a  world  thus  exquisitely  fra- 
med, could  be  meant  for  the  abode  oi  misery  and  pain. 
For  what  end  has  th*-  lavish  h.tnd  of  Providence  diffused 
innu  nerable  object*  of  deligh',  hut  th.?t  .»ll  mi^ht  rij')ice  in 
thr  privilege  of  ,  xi«rt*-nce,  ^nrl  b--  filled  with  gratitude  t® 
the  beneficent  Author  of  it?  Thus  to  enjoy  the  blessings 
he  has  sent,  is  virtue  and  obedience  ;  and  to  reject  th*  in 
merely  as  means  of  pleasure,  is  pitiable  ignorance,  or  ab- 
surd perverseness.  Infinite  goodness  is  the  source  of  crea- 
ted existence.  The  proper  tendency  of  every  rational  be- 
ing, from  the  highest  order  of  raptured  seraphs,  to  the 
meanest  rank  oi  men,  is,  to  rise  incessantlv  from  lower  de- 
grees of  happiness  to  higher.  They  have  faculties  assign- 
ed them  for  various  orders  of  d*  light.'7 

tk  Whavf'eried  *,  kC  is  this  the  language  of  Religion? 
Does  she  lead  her  votaries  through  fiowe.rv  paths,  and  bid 
them  pass  an  unlahorious  lif;  ?  Where  are  the  painful 
toils  ot  virtue,  the  mortifications  of  penitents,  and  the  self- 
denying  exercises  of  saints  and  hero-  s  r" 

"  The  true  enjoyments  of  a  reasonable  b«  ing,"  answered 
she  mildly,  c'  d°  not  consist  in  unbounded  indulgence,  or 
luxurious  ease,  in  the  tumult  of  passions,  the  languor  of  in- 
dulgence, or  the  flutter  of  light  amusements.  Yielding  to 
immoral  pleasur-  ,  corrupts  the  mind  ;  living  to  annual  <md 
triiling  ones,  debases  it:  both  in  their  degree  disqualify  it 
for  its  genuine  gooa,  and  consign  it  over  to  wretchedness, 


28  '.el  to  the  L 

Whoever  would   i>e   n-ally   happy,  must  make   the  rlili. 
and  r   ^ular  ex<  reis;   of  i,  s  nis  chi 

tion;   adoring    the    perfections   of    his    M  iker,   exj 
goodwill  to  .aim;  inward  n  c- 

tiM  i<  .       fo  his  lower  fr;r-d*ies  he  must  allow  such  gratifi- 
cations as  will,  '  :<>rat^  his  nobler  pursuits.. 
In  the  regj;  Ltun  s,  unmir.^1-  (1 
l^'i;                                                          here  with  a  perpi.tu.il 
abundant  strewn,  nor              my  mound  to  cht-i  k  its  course. 
BC.MII^,  r  in  illv   (li.s.-i^.-d, 
as  all  the  hum  in                                    lo  he,  n 
men  •)<  .1  stricter                --mmcm.    \Vhoev  r  ! 
ly  o(  vol.jman-  <  it  hoth  to  the 
p-iinfdl  working  ')!"  n               ind  luecllul  avenues  <;!  -.in-di- 
ci.ie,  in  onkr  to   his  cure.      Stili    h<-  is  c-Mticled  to  a  m> 

.-•:ns  this  fair 

mansion  of  his  merciful  Parent   ifl  'nsisteiit  witl^  his 

reeover-. .       And   in   proportion  as   thi  ;  v    advances, 

the  in-  will  spring   from   his  secret  st^nse  of  an  a- 

m  nd;-cl  .ind  improved  h'  Art. — Sf>  far  from  the  horrors  of 
d  -pair  is  the  concJH'  nli\  . — Shuddervpqor 

mortal,  at  the  thought  of  the  gulph  into  which  thou  wast 
just  n"W  going  to  plunge." 

tk  \Vhil«     the  '.:ulty   have  every  encouragement  to 

arm-nd,  the  more  innocent  soul  will  he  .supported  with  still 
sweeter  '.->ns  under  all  its  experience  of  human  in- 

iirr,  :dder.iv>g  assurances,  that  i 

j-y  s  rro.v  them,   shall   he   assisted, 

act'  I'o  such  a  one,  th  .  lowliest  self- 

ah  ^em-  it  i  (K  epiaicl  foundation  lor  the  most  tlevat- 

ed  hop  s;  sinre  they  who  i'aithiuil'  txamine  and  acknow- 
K"Ij;\  what  t'ne-v-  are,  shall  he  ennabled  under  my  conduct,  to 
b^c  -sire.  The  christian  and  the  hero  arc 

ins-'pa-- :  -  of  unassuming  trust  and 

filial  confidence,  are  set  no  hounds.  To  him  who  is  ani- 
mat-d  uith  \  vi-./w  of  obtaining  approbation  from  the  So- 
vereign of.  the  .universe,  no  difficulty  is  insurmountable, 
Secure  in  thi^  pursuit  of  every  n«  edful  aid,  his  conflict  with 
the  severest  pains  and  tri  ih,  is  little  more  than  the  vigor- 
ous exrrcis-s  of  a  nuv!  in  health.  His  patient  dependence 
on  that  Providence  which  looks  through  all  eternity,  his 


Narrative  Pieces.  29 

silent  resignation,  his  ready  accommodation  of  his  thoughts 
and  behaviour  to  its  inscrutable  wa\  s,  art;  at  once  the  most 
excellent  sort  of  self-denial,  and  a  source  oi  the  most  i-x- 
alted  transports.  Society  is  the  true  sphere  of  human  vir- 
tue. In  social,  active  life,  difficulties  will  perp*  tuail  be 
met  with  ;  restraints  ot  many  kinds  will  be  necessary  ;  md 
studying  to  behave  right  in  respect  of  these,  is  a  discipline 
of  the  human  heart,  useful  to  others,  and  improving  to  it- 
self. Suffering  is  no  duty,  but  where  it  is  necessarv  to 
avoid  guilt,  or  to  do  good  ;  nor  pleasure  a  crime,  but  where 
it  strengthens  the  influence  of  bad  inclinations,  or  lessens 
the  generous  activity  of  virtue.  The  happiness  allotted  to 
man  in  his  present  state,  is  indeed  faint  and  low,  compared 
with  his  immortal  prospects,  and  noble  capacities :  but  yet 
whatever  portion  of  it  the  distributing  hand  oi  heaven  of- 
fers to  each  individual,  is  a  needful  support  and  refresh- 
ment for  the  present  moment,  so  far  as  it  may  not  hinder 
the-  attaining  of  his  final  destination." 

"  Return  then  with  me  from  continual  misery,  to  mode- 
rate enjoyment,  and  grateful  alacrity  :  return  from  the  con- 
tracted views  of  solitude,  to  the  proper  cliries  of  a  relative 
and  dependent  being.  RELIGION  is  not  confined  to  cells 
anu  closets,  nor  restrained  to  sullen  retirement.  These  are 
the  gloomy  doctrines  of  SUPEKSTITION,  by  which  she  en- 
d«  avours  to  break  those  chains  of  ben- -voleiice  and  social 
affection,  that  link  tfu  we  If  art-  of  every  particular  with  that 
of  the  whole.  Remember,  that  the  greatest  honour  \  ou  can 
pav  the  Author  of  your  being,  is  -A  behaviour  so  cheerful 
as  discovers  a  mind  satisfied  with  it^  own  dispensations." 
Here  my  preceptress  paused;  and  I  was  going  to  express 
my  acknowledgements  for  her  discourse,  when  a  ring  of 
bells  Irom  the  neighbouring  village,  and  the  new  risi-n  sun 
darting  his  beams  through  mv  windowsawokemc.— CARTER* 


CHAPTER  II.— DIDACTIC  PIECES. 
SECTION  i. —  Vicious  connexions  the  rum  of  virtue. 

AMONQ  the  numerous  causes  which  introduce  corruption 
into  the  hem,  and  accelerate  its  growth,  no  '     Mri- 

\\  pov.-.-r.u!   th  »n   ihv  contagion  which   -s  'lifr'i^ 
bad   examples,  and   heightened  by  particular  connexions 


30  Sequel  to  the  Rnglifih  R 

with  persons  of  loose  pnncipl  5,  or  dissoluU  morals.  This, 
in  .1  li  --nti-His  st  it  01  soci.  tv ,  is  tn<  n  >  i  com -non 
of  those  vices  and  disorders  which  so  nuich  -'xmnd  in  git  at 
cities;  and  often  proves,  in  a  particul  .r  manner,  fatal  to  cue 
young;  even  to  tht'tn  whose  beginnings  were  once  auspi- 
cious and  promising.  It  m.iy  there!  >r^  be  a  useful  employ- 
in  v  ni  oi  attention,  to  trace  the  progi-ss  of  this  principle  of 
corruption  ;  to  examine  the  ni«  \  hich  u  evil  counnu- 

nications  '  graduallv  undenTiKu  ,  and  at  last  destroy  u  good 
morals."  It  is  indeed  disagreeabl*  to  contemplate  human 
nature,  in  this  downward  coursr  of  its  progress.  But  »t  is 
always  profitable  to  know  our  oxvn  infirmities  and  dangers. 
As  certain  virtuous  principles  are  still  inherent  in  human 
Mature,  there  arc  few  who  set  out  at  tirst  in  the  world  with- 
out .  positi  >ns.  The  warmth  wtiich  belongs  to  youth 
naturalls  exerts  itself  in  generous  feelings,  and  sentiiiii  nt3 
of  honour  ;  in  strong  attachment  to  fru-nds,  and  the  other 
emotions  of  \  kind  and  tender  heart.  Almost  all  the  plans 
with  which  persons  have  been  liberally  educated,  begin  the 
world,  are  connecu  i  with  honourable  views.  At  thai  peri- 
od, they  r<  pudi  ite  what-  ver  i«.  m«  an  or  base.  It  is  |)le  .sing 
to  th:-m  to  think  of  coiumandmg  tlie  t  steem  oi  those  a  noug 
whom  they  live-,  and  ol  acquit  ing  a  name  among  men.  But 
al  is  !  hou  soon  does  this  flattering  prospect  begin  to  oe 
overcast  !  Desires  o!  pleasure  usher  in  temptation,  and  i.»r- 
^\  »rd  the  growth  o!  disorderly  passions.  Ministers  ol  vice 
are  seldom  wanting  to  encourage  and  flatter  the  passions  of 
the  voung.  Inferiors  study  to  creep  into  favour  by  servile 
obstquiousn.  ss  to  .dl  their  desires  and  humours.  Glad  to 
find  any  apolog^  for  the  indulgences  of  which  they  are  lond, 
tht  voung  foo  readilv  listen  to  the  voice  oi  tliose  vvh  sug- 
gest to  them,  that  strict  notions  of  religion,  order,  and  vir- 
tue, are  old  fashioned  and  illiberal;  that  the  restraints 
which  they  impose  are  oply  fit  to  be  prescribed  to  th  se 
who  are  in  the  first  stage  of  pupillage  ;  or  to  be  preached 
to  the  vulgar,  who  ought  to  be  kept  within  the  closest 
bounds  of  regularity  ami  subjection.  But  the  goodness  of 
truir  hearts,  n  is  insinuated  to  them,  and  the  liberal iti  of 
th  ir  vi-ws,  will  tully  ju>tify  their  emancipating  themselves, 
in  ;  iegree,  from  the  rigid  discipline  of  parents  and 
teachers. 


Didactic  Pieces.  3t 

Soothing  as  such  insinuations  are  to  the  youthful  and  in- 
considerate, their  first  steps,  however,  in  vice,  are  Lauti  .-us 
an  1  timid,  and  occasionally  checked  by  remorse.  As  they 
begin  to  mingle  more  in  'the  world,  and  emerge  into  *ne 
circles  of  gaiety  and  pleasure,  finding  these  loose-  ideas 
countenanced  by  too  general  practice,  they  gradual  y  be- 
come bolder  in  the  liberties  they  take.  If  they  have  been 
bred  to  business,  they  begin  to  tire  of  industry,  and  look 
with  contempt  on  the  plodding  race  of  citizens.  II  they 
are  of  superior  rank,  they  think  it  becomes  them  to  resem- 
ble their  equals  ;  to  assume  that  freedom  of  behaviour,  Mat 
air  of  forwardness,  that  tone  of  dissipation,  that  easy  neg- 
ligence of  those  with  whom  they  converse,  which  appear 
fashionable  in  high  life.  If  affluence  of  fortune  unhappily 
concurs  to  favour  their  inclinations,  amusements  and  di- 
versions succeed  in  a  perpetual  round  ;  night  .aid  day  are 
confounded  ;  gaming  fills  up  their  vacant  intervals  ;  they 
live  wholly  in  public  places  ;  they  run  into  many  degrees 
of  excess,  disagreeable  even  to  themselves,  merely  irom 
weak  complaisance,  and  the  fear  of  being  ridiculed  by  their 
loose  associates.  Among  these  associates,  the  most  harden- 
ed and  determined  always  take  the  lead.  The  rest  iollow 
thfin  with  implicit  submission;  and  make  proficiency  in  this 
school  of  iniquity,  in  exact  proportion  to  the  weakness  of 
their  understandings,  and  the  strength  of  thtir  passions. 

How  many  pass  away  after  this  manner,  s»me  oi  the 
most  valuable  years  of  their  life,  tost  in  a  whirlpool  oi  what 
cannot  be  called  pleasure,  so  much  as  mere  giddiness  and 
folly !  In  the  habits  of  perpetual  connexion  with  idle  or  li- 
centious company,  all  reflection  is  lost ;  while,  circulated 
from  one  empty  head,  and  one  thoughtless  heart,  to  .an- 
other, folly  shoots  up  into  ail  its  most  ridiculous  forms; 
prompts  the  extravagant,  unmeaning  frolic  in  private  ;  or 
salhrs  forth  in  public  into  mad  riot;  impelled  sometimes 
by  intoxication,  sometimes  by  mere  levity  of  spirits. 

Amidst  this  course  of  juvenile  infatuation,  I  readily  ad- 
mit, that  much  good  nature  may  still  remain.  Generosity 
and  attachments  may  be  found  ;  nay,  some  awe  uf  religion 
may  still  subsist,  *nd  some  remains  of  those  good  impres- 
sions which  were  mad-  upon  the  mind  in  early  days.  It 
might  yet  be  very  possible  to  reclaim  such  persons,  and  to 

3 


Sequel  to  the  English  R<  m 

foi  u  them  for  UM  iul  and  i    s-.  in  the  world, 

il    virtuous    ,uKi    im,To\  yig  s<>ci-  i-  <l 

to  me  pUcr  oi   ih.it  idle  c;v.v\  \vit.i  who  n   they  now  \\ 
cia-..- ,    it    important  business  should  occur,  i..  ,  -\\\ 

into  a. differ  en.  t   sphere  of   action;   or,  r    som*  ble 

stroke  01  alHictiou  should  in  men  \  e  -v  t,  u>  i\t.aii  ilh.in 
to  ih<. n^lves,  and  to  a\\  <  ions  and  manlv  thought. 

But,  H  youth  and  vigour,  and  flowing  fortune  continiu  ;  if 
a  similar  succession  oi  companions  go  on  to  amust  them, 
to  ii^ro.s^  thrir  time,  .md  to  stir  up  thi  ir  j).t.^sions  ;  tht  day 
of  r.im — I-,  t  them  t.ike  heed,  and  ' — ,hc  d,»\  01  ir- 

recoverable ruin  begins  tv)  drau  ni;;h.  Fouune  is  scjuan- 
de)-.  a  i  health  is  broker:;  trundsar  • !,  ail;  onted, 

cstr.nijjred  ;  ageci  parents,  perhaps,  sent  afHuted  »nd  mourn- 
ing to  the  dust. 

JTnere    are    certain    d.  >!'  vice    which    fire    chiefly 

u|Kd  with  the  character  of  the  riijiculous,  and  the  con- 
temi-tii)le  ;  and  tlu  re  .  cerliiin  limits,  l^eyond  which, 

if  it  ))  ,ss,  it  becomes  odious  and  detc«..ai)le.  If,  to  other 
corruptions  which  the  h--art  has  already  received,  i>e  iitided 
th«  infusion  of  sceptic;.!  pitnciplts,  that  wo  st  of  all  the 
u  evil  communic-ttions"  oi  Dinners,  the  whole  ol  morals  is 
then  on  the  point  oi  hc-ing  overthrown.  .  For,  even  cnme 
can  then  be  palliated  to  Conscience  ;  >eck  and  re- 

stiaint  which  huci  hith^  rto  remained,  is  taj<rn  away.  He 
who,  in  the  beginning  (^'.  hi-  ronrsi,  soothed  himself  with 
the  ih  'U^ht,  that  wnile  he  in-lulg-  d  his  de.snvs,  -ie  <iid  hurt 
to  no  man;  now,  pressed  by  the  nectssin  oi  s»upply  ing  those 
wants  into  which  his  expensive  pleasures  have  brought  him, 
goes  on  without  femorse  to  defraud,  and  10  oppress.  1  he 
lover  of  pleasure,  now  becomes  hardened  and  cruel  ;  vio- 
lates his  trust,  or  betrays  his  friend  i  becomes  a  man  of 
t>e  tchery.  or  a  man  ol  blood  ;  satisfying,  or  at  least  t  ndea- 
vouring  all  the  while  to  satisfy  himself  that  circumstan<  es 
form  his  excuse;  th.*t  by  necessity  he  is  impelled;  and 
tha%  in  gratifying  the  passions  which  nature  had  implant  d 
within  him,  he  -does  no  more  tnan  follow  nature. 

Mis«.r  ble  and  deluded  man!  to  what  art  thou  come  at 
the  -ist?  Dost  thou  pretend  to  follou  n -ture,  wlv  n  thou 
-an  onumninkj  the  laws  oi  the  GOJ  oi  n  uirt  ?  whin  tisou 
artbtifling  his  voice  within  thee,  which  rtmonbtratts  a 


Didactic  Pieces.  33 

thy  crimes  ?  when  thou  art  violating  the  best  part  of  thy 
maun  ,  by  count  ihe  dictates  of  justice  and  bmr-a- 

mtv  I  Dosi  thou  follow  nature,  when  thou  renderest  ihv- 
sell  i  useless  a  mm  >i  on  the  earth  ;  and  not  useless  only, 
but  noxious  to  the  society  to  which  thou  belongest,  ami  to 
whi.  h  thou  art  a  disgrace;  noxious,  by  the  bad  example 
thou  hast  s  t;  noxious,  by  the  crimes  thou  hast  commit- 
t  (I  ;  ^sacrificing  innocence  to  thy  guilty  pleasures,  and  in- 
troducing shame  and  ruin  into  the  habitations  of  p<.  a  ; 
defrauding  of  their  due  the  unsuspicious  who  have  trusted 
thre  ;  involving  in  the  ruins  of  thy  fortune  m  <ny  a  worthy 
ia  Tiiiy  ;  reducing  ihe  industrious  and  the  aged  to  rnis  ry 
and  Want;  bv  all  which,  if  thou  hast  escaped  tht-  deserved 
sword  of  justice,  thou  hast  at  least  brought  on  thyseli  he 
rcs.'.jtmem.  -md  the  reproach,  ol  all  the  respectable  am?  the 
worthy. — Tremble  then  at  the  view  of  the  gulf  which  is 
opening  before  thee.  Look  wuh  horror  at  the  pr<  cipice,  on 
the  brink  of  which  thou  standest:  and  if  yet  a  mom<  nt  be 
left  for  retreat,  think  how  thou  mayst  escape,  and  be  s  <ved. 

BLAIR. 

SECTION   ii. — On  cheerfulness. 

I  have  always  preferred  cheerfulness  to  mirth.  The  1af> 
''•*r  I  consider  as  an  act,  th<  former  as  a  haoit  of  tht  inund. 
Mirth  is  short  and  transient,  cheerfulness  fixed  and  pern  a- 
nent.  They  who  are  subject  to  the  greatest  depressions  of 
melancholy,  are  often  raised  into  the  greatest  transports  of 
mirth:  on  the  contrary,  cheerfulness,  the  ugh  it  dors  not 
give  the  mind  a  gladness  so  exquisite,  prevents  it  from  fail- 
ing into  anv  depths  of  sorrows.  Mirth  is  like  a  flaci;  oi 
lightning,  that  breaks  through  a  gloom  of  clouds,  and  glit- 
ters for  a  moment  ;  cheerfulness  keeps  up  a  kind  of  day- 
light in  the  mind,  and  fills  it  with  a  steady  and  perpetual 
serenity. 

M^n  of  austere  principles  look  'upon  mirth  as  too  wan- 
ton and  dissolute  for  a  state,  of,  probation,  and  as  filled  with 
a  certain  triumph  and  insolence  of  heart,  that  are  incon- 
sistent with  a  life  which  is  every  moment  obnoxious  to  the 
greatest  dangers. 

Cheeriulness  of  mind  is  not  liable  to  any  of  these  excep- 
tions. It  is  of  a  serious  and  composed  nature.  It  does  not 
throw  the  mind  into  a  condition  improper  for  the  present 


34 

state  of  humanity  ;  and  is  very  conspicuous  in  the  charac- 
ters oi  (hose  who  arc  looked  upon  as  the-  greatest  philoso- 
phirs  among  the  headnns,  as  well  as  among  those  who 
have  been  deservedly  esteemed  as  saints  and  holy  men 
among  Christians. 

If  \ve  consider  cheerfulness  in  three  lights,  with  regard 
to  ourselves,  to  those  we  converse  with,  and  to  the  great 
Author  of  our  being,  it  will  not  a  little  recommend  itself 
on  each  of  these  accounts.  The  man  who  is  possessed  of 
this  excellent  frame  of  mind,  is  not  o;  his  thoughts, 

but  a  perfect  master  of  rs  and  faculties  of  the 

soul:    his  imagination   is  ahva\s  cl<  ar,    .nd  his    judgment 
lin disturbed  ;  his  temper  is  even  and  unruffled,  wheih  r  in 
attion  or  in  :;.-»!:tmie.      lit   conu-s  with  a  relish  to  all   those 
,  which  nature   has  provided   for  him;    tastes  all   the 
res  of  the   creation  which   are  poured  around   him; 
**nd  does  not  feel  the   full  weight  oi  ccideiual  evils 

which  may  befall  him. 

;;sider  him  in  r<  lation  to  the  persons  with  whom 
he  converses,  it  naturally  produces  love  and  good- will  to- 
wards him.  A  cheerful  mind  is  not  only  disposed  to  be  af- 
*V  it  and  obliging,  but  raises  the  same  good  humour  in 
those  who  come  within  its  influence.  A  man  finds  himself 
d,  he  does  not  know  why,  \\ith  the  cheerfulness  of 
his  companion  :  it  is  like  a  sudden  sunshine  that  awakens 
a  secret  di  light  in  the  mind,  without  her  attending  to  it. 
The  heart  rejoices  of  its  own  accord,  and  naturally  flows 
out  into  friendship  and  benevolence  towards  the  person 
\vho  has  so  kindly  an  effect  upon  it. 

When  I  consider  this  cheerful  state  of  mind  in  its  third 
relation,  I  cannot  but  look  upon  it  as  a  constant  habitual 
g*-  ti  ude  to  the  great  Author  of  nature.  An  inward  cheer- 
fuim.ss  is  an  implicit  praise  and  thanksgiving  to  Providence 
under  all  its  dispensations.  It  is  a  kind  of  acquiescence  in 
the  state  wherein  we  are  placed,  and  a  secret  approbation 
of  the  divine  will  in  his  conduct  towards  man. 

There  are  but  two  things,  which,  in  my  opinion,  can  rea- 
sonably deprive  us  of  this  cheesfulness  of  heart.     The  first 
o!  these  is,  the  sense  of  guilt.     A  man  who  lives  in  a  state 
e  r.nd  impenitence,  can  have  no  title  to  that  evenness 
and  tranquillity  of  mind  which  are  the  health  of  the  soul, 


Didactic  Pieces*  35 

and  the  natural  effect  of  virtue  and  innocence.  Cheerful- 
ncss  in  a  bad  man  deserves  a  hardei  nani;  than  language 
can  furnish  us  with,  and  is  many  degrees  beyond  what  we 
commonly  call  folly  or  madness. 

Atbu  ism,  by  which  1  mean  a  disbelief  of  a  Supreme 
Bring,  and  consequently  of  a  future  state,  under  whatso- 
ever title  it  shelters  itself,  may  likewise  very  reasonably 
deprive  a  man  of  this  cheerfulnt  ss  of  temper.  There  is 
something  so  particularly  gloomy  and  Offensive  to  human 
nature  in  the  prospect  of  non-i  xistence,  that  I  cannot  but 
wonder,  with  many  excellent  writers,  how  it  is  possible  for 
a  mm  to  utlive-  the  expectation  of  it.  For  my  own  part,  I 
think  the  being  of  a  God  is  so  little,,  to  be  doubted,  that  it  is 
almost  the  only  truth  we  are  sure  of,  and  such  a  truth  as  we 
meet  with  in  every  object,  in  every  occurrence,  and  in  eve- 
ry thought.  It  we  look  into  the  characters  oi  this  tribe  of 
infidels,  we  generally  find  they  are  made  up  of  pride,  spl<  e  n, 
'and  cavil  It  is  indeed  no  wonder,  that  men,  who  ar-r  un- 
easy in  themselves,  should  be  so  to  the  rest  of  the  world  : 
and  how  is  it  possible  for  a  man  to  be  otherwise  than  un- 
easy in  himself,  who  is  in  dangrr  every  moment  of  losing 
his  entire  existence,  and  dropping  into  nothing? 

The  vicious  man  and  atheist  have  therefore  no  pretence 
to  cheerfulness,  and  would  act  very  unreasonably,  should 
they  endeavour  after  it.  It  is  impossible  for  any  on«.-  to  live 
in  good  humour,  and  enjoy  his  pr  sent  existence,  who  is 
apprehensive-  either  of  torment  or  of  annihilation  ;  oi  being 
miser  able,  or  of  not  being  at  all. 

After  having  mentioned  these  two  great  prin<  i;  les,  which 
arr  destructive  of  cheerfulness  in  their  own  nature,  as  wtll 
as  in  right  reason,  I.  cannot  think  of  any  other  that  ought 
to  banish  this  h.ippy  temper  from  a  virtuous  mind.  Pain 
and  sickness,  shame  and  rtproiu  h.  poverty  and  old  age? 
nay,  death  itself,  considering  thv  shortness  of  th<  ir  dura- 
tion, and  the  advantage  we  may  r^ap  from  them,  do  not  de- 
serve the  name  of  evils.  \  good  mind  may  bear  up  under 
them  with  fortitude*  with  tranquillity,  and  with  cheerful- 
ness of  heart.  The  tossing  of  a  tempest  does  not  discom- 
pose a  man,  who  is  sun  it  w  ill  brin^  him  to  a  joy  fut  harbour. 

FK  ^  ho  uses  his  Iv.  st  <  ndfv.vours  to  live  accordip'  »r> 
the  tiicuitcs  oi  virtue  and  n.:h  reason,  h#s  two  perpeuiJl 

* 


o6  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

sources  of  chee rfulness,  in  the  consideration  of  his  own  . 
ti'iv,  nncl  of  that  Being  on  whom  he  has  a  dependence.  If 
he  louks  into  himself,  he  cannot  but  rej  »ice  in  that  exist- 
ence, which  was  so  lately  bestowed  upon  him,  and  which, 
after  millions  ot  ages,  will  be  still  new,  and  still  in  its  be- 
ginning. Id  >w  many  self  congratulations  naturally  arise  in 
the  rnind,  when  it  reflects  on  this  its  entrance  ihto  eternity; 
\vhtn  it  takes  a  view  of  those  improvable  faculties,  which 
in  a  tVw  years,  and  even  at  its  first  setting  out,  have  made 
so  considerable  a  progress,  and  which  will  be  still  receiv- 
ing an  increase  of  perfection,  and  consequently  an  increase 
of  happiness  !  The  consciousness  of  such  a  being  causes  a 
perpetual  diffusion  of  joy  through  the  soul  of  a  virtuous 
m  n  ;  and  makes  him  feel  as  much  happiness  as  he  is  ca- 
pable of  conceiving. 

The  second  source  of  cheerfulness  to  a  good  mind,  is  its 
consideration  of  that  Being,  on  whom  we  have  our  dept  n- 
derict,  and  in  whr.m,  though  we  behold  him  as  yet  but  in 
the  first  faint  discoveries  of  his  perfections,  we  see  every 
thing  that  we  can  imagine  as  grtat,  glorious,  or  amiable. 
We  find  oursel\  \  where  upheld  by  his  goodness, 

and  surrounded  with  an  immensity  ot  love  and  mercy.  In 
short,  vc  depend  upon  a  Being,  whose  power  qualifies  him 
to  make  u>  happy  by  an  infinity  of  means;  whose  goodness 
and  truth  engage  him  to  make  those  happy  who  desire  it 
of  him;  and  whose  unchangeablenc ss  will  secure  tor  us 
this  h  ippim  ss  to  all  eternity. 

Suco  considerations,  which  every  one  should  perpetually 
choish  in  hi*  thoughts,  will  banish  from  us  all  that  secret 
ht-avitif.ss  ot  heart,  which  unthinking  men  are  subject  to 
\vhrn  they  lie  under  no  real  affliction;  all  that  anguish  which 
Wr  may  ftt-l  from  any  evil  that  actually  oppresses  us  ;  to 
\\hich  I  may  likewise  add,  those  little  cracklings  of  minh 
and  folly,  that  are  apter  to  betray  virtue  than  support  it ; 
and  cs:  blish  in  us  so  even  and  cheerful  a  temper,  as  will 
ir>ak<  us  ;  le  :sing  to  ourselves,  to  those  with  whom  wre  con- 
Veise,andiu  Him  whom  we  are  madc-to  please. — ADDISON. 

8*:c    ION   in.— Happy  rjftcts  of  conU'mplating  the  works 

of  nature. 

WITH  th<  D'vine  works  we  are  in  every  place  surround- 
ed. W  w  can  cast  our  eyes  no  where,  without  discerning  the 


Didactic  Pieces.  37 

band  of  Him  who  formed  them,  if  the  Crossness  of  our 
<minds  will  only  allow  us  to  Ix-hold  Him.  Lrt  giddy  and 
thoughtless  men  turn  aside  a  little  from  the  haunts  of  riot. 
Let  them  stand  still,  and  contemplate  tht-  wondrous  wo. 
of  God  ;  and  make  trial  of  the  efTVct  whuh  sucn  ont-  m- 
plation  would  produce. — It  were  good  for  them  that,  « 
independently  of  the  Author,  thvy  were  more  acquainted 
\vith  his  works  ;  good  for  them,  that  from  the  societies  of 
loose  and  dissolute  men,  they  would  retreat  to  the  scenes 
of  nature  ;  would  oftener  dwell  among  them,  and  enjoy 
their  beauties.  This  would  form  them  to  the  relish  of  un- 
corrupttd,  innocent  pleasures  ;  and  make  them  feel  the  va- 
lue of  calm  enjoyments,  as  superior  to  the  noisv  and  turbu- 
lence of  licentious  gaiety.  From  the  harmony  ot  nature, 
and  of  nature's  works,  th^y  would  lr  a>n  to  hear  sweeter 
sounds  than  those  which  arise  from  u  the  viol,  the  ubret, 
and  the  pipe." 

But  to  higher  and  more  serious  thoughts  these  works  of 
nature  give  occasion,  when  considered  in  conjunction  with 
the  Creator  who  made  them. — Let  me  call  on  you,  my 
friends,  to  catch  some  interval  of  reflection,  some  serious 
moment,  for  looking  with  thoughtful  eye  on  the  world 
around  you.  Lift  vour  view  to  that  immense  arch  o»  h  a- 
Vt  n  which  encompasses  vou  above.  BeboM  the  sun  in  all 
his  splendour  rolling  over  your  head  by  oay  ;  and  th<  moon, 
by  night,  in  mild  and  serene  majesty,  surrounded  with  tuat 
host  of  stars  which  present  to  your  imagination  an  innume- 
rable multitude  of  worlds.  Listen  to  the  awful  voice  of 
thunder.  Listen  to  the  roar  of  the  tempest  :tnd  tht  ocean. 
Survey  the  wonders  that  fill  the  earth  which  you  inhabit. 
Contemplate  a  teady  and  powerful  Hand,  bringing  round 
spring  and  summer,  autumn  and  winter,  in  rtgnl  r  course  ; 
d*  rorating  this  earth  vvith  innumerable  beauties,  divi  ts  ;y- 
ing  it  with  innumerable  inhabitants  ;  pouring  forth  comforts 
on  all  th -it  live  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  overawing  the  na- 
tions with  the  violence  of  the  elements,  when  it  pleases  the 
Creator  to  let  them  forth.— —After  you  have  viewed  your- 
selves as  surrounded  with  such  a  scene  of  wond  rs ;  af|C* 
you  have  beheld,  on  ever)  hand,  so  astoni-hing  t  disj ir" 
oi  majesty  united  with  wisdom  and  goodness;  are  you 
Si  izt-d  with  solemn  and  serious  avv>  ?  Is  there  not  sc"e* 
thing  which  whispers  within,  that  to  this  great  Creator 


to  the  English  Reader. 

verence  and  homage  arc  clue  b\  all  the  rational  beings  whom 
he  his  maue  ?  Admitted  to  be-  spectators  oi  bis  works, 
pi  iced  in  the  midst  of  so  man\  gn  at  and  inn  resting-  obj<  els, 
can  you  believ^  that  you  \vt  re  bi  ought  hitlv-r  for  no  pur- 
pose, but  to  immerse  yourselves  in  gross  and  brutal,  or,  at 
be^t,  in  trifling  pleasures;  lost  to  all  st-nse  of  the  wonders 
you  bthold  ;  lost  to  all  reverence  of  th.it  God  \\  ho  gave  you 
being,  and  who  has  erected  this  amazing  1  tin  ot  nature, 
on  -vhic  h  you  look  only  with  stupid  and  unmeaning  e\  es  ? 
— No:  let  the  scenes  which  sou  in  hold  prompt  cornspon- 
fl-.-nt  if  lings.  Let  them  awaken  \  on  from  the  degrading 
intoxication  of  licentiousness,  into  nobler  emotions.  Every 
object  which  you  view  in  nature,  \vlu- the r  great  or  small, 
serves  to  instruct  you.  HK  star  and  the  HIM  ct,  the  fiery 
meteor  and  the  flower  oi  spring,  the  veidant  field  and  tha 
loity  mountain,  all  exhibr  - .-;-,  U  fore  which 

you  ought  to  tremble  and  adore  ;  all  preach  the  doctrine, 
all  inspire  the  spirit,  ot  devotion  and  n  verence.  Regard- 

tiv-n,  th.  '  the-  Loi:i,  let  rising  emotions  of  awe 

and  gr. •••.:•  i  lorth  from  your  souls  such  sentiments  as 

».h»  M  ; — "  Lord,  wherever  1  am,  and  \\hau-ver  1  enjoy, 
Ic^rget  thee,  as  th^  Authoi  of  natur*.  !  May  I 
mver  forgt  t  that  1  am  th\  crc  iture  and  thv  subject!  In 
tui^  magnify  ol  th«  universe,  u  here  thou  hast 

it  me,  i;  .  be  th\  faithful  \\  or^hir*per ;  and  may 

tr«-  revt  r».  nee  and  the  fear  oi  God  lie  the  first  sentiments  of 
m\  l^art.  .p>  BLAIR. 

SECI  ION   iv. —  R  factions  on  the  universal  presence  of 

Deity. 

IN  one  of  m\  1  ate  papers,  I  h  i^l  occasion  to  consider  the 
ubiquit\  of  the  (Godhead,  and    at  the  same  time  to  show, 
that  as  ho  is  present  to  every  thing,  he  cannot  but  be  atten- 
tive to  evi  rv  thing,  mcl  privy  >o  all  the  modes  and  parts  of 
its  i  xist-  nre  :  o»,  m  oth<  r  words,  that  his  omniscient  e  and 
omnipresence  aft  c(j  -.  xistent,  and  run  together  through  the 
xv h«  le  i    finitude  ot    sp  ce.      Fhis  consideration   might  tur- 
«  us  wuh  many  me.iuives   to  devotion,  and   motives   to 
Si  rality  ;    but  as  ««'is  subject  has  bv  en  ban    1   d    I)     s-  ver.il 
elk-nt  urners,  I  shall   consider  it   in  a   light   in  which  I 
e  riot  seei  <    ;  b\   « --h   ri . 

ejFirs>t?  How  oibconsolate  is  the  condit  on  of  au  inttlico 


Didactic  Pieces.  39 

tual  being,  who  is  thus  present  with  his  Maker,  but  at  the 
s-ime  lime  recehes  no  e  xtraordinary  beiu  tit  or  advantage 
from  his  presence  ! 

S  condlv,  How  deplorable  is  the  condition  of  an  intellec- 
tual dung,  who  feels  no  other  efferts  from  his  pr;  si  nee, 
than  such  as  proceed  from  divine  wrath  and  indignation  ! 

Thirdly,  how  happy  is  the  condition  o«  that  intelieciual 
being,  who  is  sensible  of  his  Maker's  pres.nc.;,  irotn  the 
stcivc  ejects  of  his  mercy  an  >  loving-kind n,-s  ! 

First,  How  disconsolate  is  the  condition  of  an  intellec- 
tu  .1  being,  who  is  thus  present  with  his  Maker,  but  av  me 
same  time  receives  no  extraordinary  benv  lit  or  advantage 
from  his  presence  !  Every  particle  ot  maiur  i*  actuated  by 
this  Almighty  Being  which  passes  through  it-  Tlu  hi  .tvuis 
ami  the  earth,  the  stars  and  planets,  move  and  gravitate  by 
v:  iu  of  this  great  principle  within  them.  Ail  ihr  dead 
pans  of  nature  are  invigorated  by  the  presence  of  their 
Creator,  and  made  capable  of  exerting  'heir  respe  tivi  qua- 
lities. The  several  instincts  in  the  brute  creation,  do  like- 
wise operate  and  work  towards  the  several  ends  which  are 
agreeable  to  them,  by  this  divine  energy.  Man  oi;iy,  who 
does  not  co-operate  with  his  holy  spirit,  and  is  inatu  ntive 
to  his  presence,  receives  none  ot  those  advantages  from  it, 
which  are  perfective  of  his  nature,  and  necessary  to  his 
well-being.  The  divinity  is  with  him,  and  in  him,  and  eve- 
ry where  about  him,  but  of  n&  advantage  to  him.  It  is  the 
same  thing  to  a  man  without  religion,  as  if  there  were  no 
God  in  the  world.  It  is  indeed  impossible  for  an  infinite 
Being  to  remove  himself  from  any  of  his  creatures;  but 
though  he  cannot  withdraw  his  essence  from  us,  which 
would  argue  an  imperfection  in  him,  he  can  withdraw  from, 
us  all  the  joys  and  consolations  of  it.  His  presence  may 
perhaps  be  necessary  to  support  us  in  our  existence  ;  out 
he  may  leave  this  our  existence  to  itself,  with  regard  to  as 
happiness  or  misery.  For,  in  this  sense,  he  may  cast  us 
away  from  his  presence,  and  take  his  holy  spirit  trom  us. 
This  single  consideration  one  would  think  sufficient  to 
make"  us  open  our  hearts  to  all  those  infusions  or  joy  uiid 
gladness*,  which  are  so  near  at  hand,  and  ready  to  be  pour- 
ed in  upon  us:  especially  when  wr  consider, 

Secondly,  The  deplorable  condition  of  an  intellectual  be« 


40  Sequel  to  the  Fn^lt^h  Reader. 

in 5^,  who  feels  n  r,i  his  M.-ker's  presence, 

th.  n  such  :ts    proceed  !n»n»  divine  wrath   and  '-n. 

AV  m  ,\  assure  oursJvrs,  that  ihe  c;u-at  Author  oi 
\vill  not  alw.tvs  be  as  onr  \\  ho  is  mdiflVrent  to  any  of  his 
cr-  ,,tuus.  They  v\  ho  will  m.t  <t«  I  him  in  his  love,  will  be 
sure  at  length  to  fr  I  him  in  his  displeasure.  And  how 
diradful  is  the  condinon  of  ih.it  creamre,  who  i^  sensible 
of  th  •  ;>emg  of  his  (  only  l>\  what  he  suilvrs  from 

h    "  !    H     is  s.-nt  in  hcil  «is  in  :  !>ut 

th     n.1  alvtants  <  is  he-hold  him  onh   in 

h  s  u  rat  1  th.  ,11- 

s  ivr'jj  from  him.      i;  A  'imagination  to 

COIK  -i\      thr  fearful  ..lipot' nee  in, 

But  i  shall   only  an  intel- 

Irc'  under  v  of 

him  all  times,  and  in  .:ll  j  iv    unit- 

Nvith  hi»n.    II  >ul,  and '  \<-\  it  in 

alt  its  i  -(iiltics.  Hi-  can  hinder  an\  of  the  greatest  comforts 
ol  life  from  refri-sliing  us,  and  ^iv  an  ed^e  to  en  ry  one  of 
its  sliglr  v.Vho  then  can  hi  ar  the  thought  of 

bt  ing  an  out-cast  from  his  presence,  that  is,  from  the  com- 
forts ul  it,  or  of  feeling  it  onh  in  its  terrors  i  H,>w  pathetic 
is  that  expostulation  of  Joh,  whrii  for  thr  rr  ..1  ti'ui  of  his 
p  r  made  to  look  upon  himself  n  this  deplo- 

rable corivtitioii !  u  why  hast  thou  set  mr  as  a  mark  against 
thee,  so  that  1  am  become  a  burden  to  myselt  ?  ' 

H'it,  thirdl\\  ho\v  h  tpny  is  the  condition  of  that  intellec- 
tual being,  who  is  sensible  of  his  Maker's  presence,  from 
the  secret  edicts  of  h's  mercy  and  loving-kindness!  i 

in  heaven  heiu-kl  liim  ftce  to  fact,  that  is,  are  as 
sensi!)l-  of  his  presence  as  we  are  of  the  presence  of  any 
n  -son  who;.  ';  upon  with  our  eyes.  There  is  doubt- 

le.ss  a  laculty  in  spirits,  by  which  they  apprehend  one  an- 
other, a  our  senses  do  material  objects  ;  and  there  is  no 
qu  stion  but  our  souls,  when  they  are  disembodied,  or  plac- 
eo  in  j^ioritied  bodies,  will,  by  this  faculty,  in  what-  ve?  part 
of  s])Hce  ihey  residr,  be  always  sensible  of  thr  divine  pre- 
sence. We,  who  have  this  \eil  of  nVsh  standing  between  us 
and  the  world  of  spirits,  must  be  content  to  know  the  spi- 
r«i  o'  Ciod  is  present  \\ith  us  bv  the  (  ilects  v.  hich  he  pio- 
duces  ui  us.  Our  outward  sciibes  are  too  grobii  to  apprehend 


ic  Piece*.  41 

him.  Wr  mav  however  taste  ami  see  how  gracious  he  is, 
by  his  infLi^'.ct  upon  our  minds:  by  those  virtu  AI  thoughts 
which  he  n wakens  iu  us;  !>\  those  serivt  comions  anu  re- 
freshments which  tic  conveys  into  our  souis  ',  and  In  those 
ra\  is.hmg  jo\  s  an.i  inward  satisfactions  w'.iich  an  Ire.qiv  utly 
spnogmg  up,  and  diffusing  themsdvrs  -tn^ng  die  thoughts 
of  ^ood  men.  He  is  lodged  in  our  very  e-si  no.,,  -na  is  as 
a  soul  within  the  soul,  to  irradiate  its  understanding,  no- 
tify its  will,  purify  its  passions,  and  cniiv.  n  ail  Mi-  ;,owers 
of  man.  How  ha;>py  therefore  is  n  intellectual  oeiug,  \vho, 
by  prayer  and  medit.i-ion,  by  virtue  and  good  wo;  ks,  opens 
this  communication  between  God  and  his  o.vn  soul !  1  h  aigh 
the  whole  creation  frowns,  .*nd  all  naturv  looks  black  a  >uut 
him,  h^  has  his  light  and  support  within,  that  are  able  to 
cheer  his  mind,  and  bear  him  up  in  the  midst  of  all  those 
horrors  winch  encompass  him.  He  knows  that  his  helper 
is  at  hand,  and  is  always  n<  m.-r  to  him  than  any  thing  >.  an 
be,  which  is  capable  of  annoying  or  terrifying  him.  In  the 
midst  of  calumny  or  contempt,  he  attends  to  that  Being 
who  whispers  better  things  within  his  soul,  ana  whom  he 
looks  upon  as  his  defender,  his  glory,  and  the  later- up  of 
his  head.  In  his  deepest  solnudt  and  retirement,  he  knows 
that  he  is  in  company  with  the  greatest  of  beings  ;  and  per- 
ceivi-s  within  himself  such  real  sensations  of  his  presence, 
as  are  more  delightful  than  any  thing  that  can  be  met  with 
in  the  conversation  of  his  creatures.  Evt-n  in  the  hour  of 
dea<h,  he  considers  the  pains  of  his  dissolution  to  be  omy 
the  breaking  do\vn  of  that  p  rtition,  which  stands  betw«xt 
his  soul,  and  the  sight  of  that  Being  who  is  always  present 
with  him,  and  is  about  to  manifest  itself  to  him  in  fulness 
of joy. 

If  we  would  be  thus  happ\ ,  and  thus  sensible  of  our  Ma- 
ker's presence,  from  the  secret  effects  of  his  mercy  and 
goodness,  we  must  keep  such  *  watch  «.>VXT  all  our  thoughts, 
th  it,  in  the  language  of  the  scripture,  his  soul  may  have 
pi  "Sure  in  us.  We  must  take  care  not  to  grieve  his  holy 
spirit,  ind  endeavour  to  make  the  meditations  of  ur  hearts 
always  acceptable  in  his  sight,  that  he  may  delight  thus  to 
reside  and  dwell  in  us.  The  light  oi  nature  could  direct  Se- 
nccrf  to  this  doctrine,  in  a  v  M  r  -n  ti  k ,ibK  p  •  s  ure  in  one 
of  his  t-pisrl-s:  *fc  J  here  is  ffcuVs*  .icj  a  hol\  -  irit  residi-g 
in  us,  who  watches  and  observes  both  gooU  auu  evii  men, 


i'2  Semtfl  to  the  English  Reader. 

and  ^vill  tren  us  ait  r  the-  s,im     mannei  »h  u  we  treat  him." 
fin  i  conr  hide  this  discourse  with  those  more-  t -mpha- 

tii  a.  in   dixine  rc\\  l.ttion  :    a  If    a  man  lov<    nu  ,  he 

\v-.ll  v  words;  itiul  m\   Father  will  love  hun,  and  we 

\\ili  O,UK  uiuo  him,  an  :  make  our  abode  with  him." 

ADDISON. 


C.I  VPTER   If  I  —  ARGUMENTATIVE  PIECES. 


.  N    i  —  tor  /,///;  r/rtY  knjiv'tJ^*  if  a  future  state^ 
•ondition  of  man. 

.  is  dissatisfied  with  the.  obscurity  which 
D  i  'I-  Providence  has  \vist-l\  ihiown  o\  •  r  the  luturt-  state, 
t          ives  that  more  information  would   ()e  reasonabl    and 
.     He  (h  sires  to  have  his  \  irged  beyond  the 

linn's  of  this  co,  porval  scene.  Instead  ol  resting  upon  evi- 
dence wnich  req  tires  discussion,  which  must  be  supported 
by  much  reasoning,  and  winch,  after  all,  he  alleges  yields 
vi-  rv  imp'-ri'ect  information,  he  demands  the  everlasting 
mansions  to  be  so  displayed,  as  to  place  faith  on  a  level 
\virh  the  ••vid-.-Pco  nt  su.s-  .  What  noble  and  happy  effects, 
he  exclaims,  would  in-it.ntU  follow,  if  man  thus  beheld  his 
present  and  his  fut;re  existence  at  once  before  him!  He 
\v--uld  then  become  worthy  of  his  rank  in  the  creation.  In- 
stead of  being  the  sport,  as  now,  of  degrading  passions 
and  chilii^h  .utachmt  nts,  he  would  act  soleh  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  immortality.  His  pursuit  of  virtue  would  be  stea- 
dy ;  his  life  wouli  i>e  undisturbed  and  happy.  Superior  to 
thr  attacks  of  distress,  and  to  the  solicitations  of  pleasure, 
Iv  would  advance,  by  a  regular  progress,  towards  those 
divin*  r.  wards  an  honours  which  were  continually  pres- 
et to  his  vi--v.  —  fhas  fanjy  with  as  much  ease  and  con- 
fid'  nee  .is  it  it  u.  n.  a  perhct  judge  of  creation,  erects  a 
new  »>o'!d  t  »  itstlr,  and  exults  with  admiration  ot  its  own 
woi  k.  But  let  us  pause,  and  suspend  this  admiration,  till 
Vi  coollv  examine  the  consequences  that  would  follow  from 
this  supposed  reformation  oi  the  universe. 

ConsicL-r  the  nature  and  circumstances  of  man.  Intro- 
duced inro  the  world  in  an  indigent  condition,  he  is  sup- 
ported at  first  by  the  care  of  others  ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  be- 
ghi^  to  i  <.nsd',  finds  labour  anrl  industrv  to  be  ne- 

cessary for  sustaining  his  liic,  and  supplying  his  wants. 


Argumentative  Pieces.  4o 

Mutual  defence  and  interest  give  »i-  10  society;  and  so- 
ciety, whin  formed,  requires  distinctions  of  prop  itv,  di- 
v.  r sitv  of  conditions,  subordination  oi  ranks,  and  a  multi- 
plicity of  occupations,  in  order  to  advancx-  the  general  good. 
The  services  of  the  poor,  and  the  protection  ;1  the  rich,  be- 
come reciprocally  necessary.  The  governors,  and  the  go- 
verned, must  co-operate  for  general  safety.  Various  arts 
must  be  studied  ;  some  respecting  the  cultivation  of  the 
mind,  others  the  care  of  the  body  ;  some  to  ward  off  the 
evils,  and  some  to  provi  ;e  the  conveniences  of  life.  In  a 
word,  by  the  destination  of  his  Creator,  and  the  n  crssiu  s 
of  his  nature,  man  commences,  at  once,  an  active,  not 
merely  a  contemplative  being.  Religion  -issum.  s  him  ,is 
such.  It  supposes  him  employed  in  this  world,  as  on  a  bu- 
sy stage.  It  regulates,  but  does  not  ibolish,  the  enterprises 
and  cares  of  ordinary  life.  It  addresses  itself  to  the  various 
ranks  in  society  ;  to  the  rich  and  the  poor,  to  the  magistrate 
and  the  subject.  It  rebukes  the  slothful ;  directs  the  dili- 
gent how  to  labour ;  and  requires  every  man  to  do  his  own 
business. 

Suppose,  now,  that  veil  to  be  withdrawn  which  conceals 
another  world  from  our  view.  Let  all  obscurity  vanish  ;  let 
us  no  longer  "  see  darkly,  as  through  a  glass ;"  but  let  eve- 
ry man  enjoy  that  intuitive  perceptio  .  of  divine  and  ttt  ,ui 
objects,  which  the  sceptic  was  supposed  to  desire.  The  im^ 
mediate  effect  of  such  a  discovery  would  be,  to  annihilate 
in  our  eye  all  human  objects,  and  to  produce  a  total  stag- 
nation in  the  affairs  of  the  world.  Were  the  celestial  glvry 
exposed  to  our  admiring  view  ;  did  the  angelic  harmony 
sound  in  our  enraptured  ears  ;  what  earthly  concerns  could 
have  the  power  of  engaging  our  attention  for  a  single  mo- 
ment ?  All  the  studies  and  pursuits,  the  arts  and  labours, 
which  now  employ  the  activity  of  man,  which  support  the 
order,  or  promote  the  happiness  of  society,  would  lie  neg- 
lected and  abandoned.  Those  desires  and  fears,  those  hopes 
and  interests  by  which  we  are  at  present  stimulated,  would 
cease  to  operate.  Human  life  would  present  no  objects  suf- 
ficient to  rouse  the  mind  ;  to  kindle  the  spirit  of  enterprise, 
or  to  urge  the  hand  of  industry.  If  the  mere  sense  oi  duty 
engaged  a  good  man  to  take  some  pun  in  the  husin.-ss  of 
the  world,  the  task,  when  submitted  to,  \vould  prove  dis- 

4 


44  Sequel  to  the  English  Ren 

ful.      Even  UK-  \)\-  b,  •  Voiron  <-i  in,    \\ould  be  sin  hter], 
ii  ?K  \vt-re  not  b?...nd  to  it  bv  tn     ai.in  >nt\   ol  (, 
ti-  nt  ni  iiis  couhn>.-m.     t  »viUii  .  Jus  i  .oe'-naUe  oi  ilu>t,  lan- 
guishing ior  th     happ\  d,u  ,U,,M  tll  those  Ki0)i- 
ou-<    ic  ^i  -ns  \vhu  h  uere    (!;                   to  his    si    hi,   hi 

n  rarih  as  a  mei  mciiulv   iX.l.  .      V\'-,:.u  v    i    Puni- 
1ms    prepared    lor    thi    en  in  oi    UKUI, 

w- ti  \vitii  conu-in|)t.       \Vhatc\t»   ib   no\v  rttirad 
so,-   U",   '\oiiUl  appear  insipid,      in  .,  \\or\l,  he  \vnuhi  IK-  no 
•   a   tit    inhal)itant  oi    ihis  wr.iici,  nor    b     (jii'iituo    lur 
th-.s,    --x   itionsuhich    arc  allottrj    to   linn  in    his    :.n-st-nt 
sphere  of   being.      But,    all    hi>  iacimi   s  -.ubiim.itfd 

above  the  nn- .surr  oi  ti'iinann  v ,  ht-  would  be    in  UK  i  ondi- 
ti'-n  ot    a  bring  of   su  u  ho,   obligrji   t(»  ri  ^ide 

am  -114    'ii   n,  w  >uhi    rrgaid    ttv  ir   jjursuits  u  ith    scoin,    as 
dr-     us,  tritlrs,  and  p^n';!  t  a  da\ . 

B. U  i"  this  i.  it  niii\    p    ri:aj>s  I)     i  rpij.  o,  that  SIK  h 

•-{  U  nct-S  as   I   h:t\v  nou    >tai-  (i,  sup.,  u  m  to  lf;tr- 

i^srixe  not  mut  ;  — l''o«  what  'Ivaigh  thi-  pre- 

sent   ,1  r  angf  nil  tit  oi    human  allurs  were  cntircl)   changt  d, 
r  vi'-w,  aiivl  ,i  sir  uj^vi    iinprt*ssion  ot  our  iuture 
^,i        ;    would  not  such  a  change  piovr  tiit   nign..-st  bl«.  ssing 
»  if    Is  not  his  attachments  to  \\oiK  1\  r>bjcctsthtj  great 
e  both  oi  his  niis«  r\  and  his  guilt  ?    Kniployt'd  in  pc  r- 
pt  iu;J  contemplation  oi    heavtnK    obj-.c  (s,  and   in  prc  para- 
tion  for  the  enjoyment  of  them,  would  he  not  become  more 
virtu  'us,  and  oi  course   moiv  h.,-)py,  th.<n  the  nature  oi  his 
it  employments  and    ;«tiachmt  nts  permits  him  to  be? 
—  A'lcwing  for  a  moment,  the  cons  qu«  net.:  to  be  such,  this 
nuichis  yielded,  that,  upon  the  supposition  which  was  m;ule, 
man  would  not  he  the  creasim  \vh  (h        now  is,  nf)r  human. 
liiV  thh  state  which  we  now  behold.      How  far  the  change 
would  contribute  to  his  welfare,  com-  s  to  be  considered. 

If  there  be  any  principle  fnllv  ascertained  bv  religion,  it 
is,  that  this  life  was  intended  for  a  state  of  trial  and  tm- 
provem-  nt  to  man.  His  preparation  for  a  better  world  re- 
quired a  gradual  purification,  carried  on  by  steps  of  pro- 
gressive discipline.  The  situation,  therefore,  here  assigned 
him,  was  such  as  to  answer  this  design,  by  calling  forth  ail 
his  active  powt-rc,  bv  giving  full  scope  to  his  moral  t!i^po- 
aitions,  and  bri.  ging  r  •  i: ;,hi  his  ui:o  character  H-.  t 

became  proper,  that  difficulty  and  temptation  shculd  arise- 


*  Argumentative  Pieces.  45 

in  the  course  of  hi>,  duty.  Ample  rewards  were  promised 
to  virtue  ;  but  these  regards  were  left,  as  yet,  in  obscurity 
and  distant  prospect.  The  impressions  of  sense  were  so  ba- 
lanced against  (he  discover!-,  s  of  immortality,  as  to  allow  a 
Conflict  between  faith  and  sense,  between  conscience  md 
desire,  between  present  pleasure  and  future  good.  In  this 
Ci-nflk--,  the  souls  of  i>ood  men  are  tried,  improved,  :md 
strengthened.  In  this  field  their  honours  are  reaped.  Here 
LI;  .  i  T.ned  the  capital  virtues  of  fortitude,  temperance,  and 
sell-denial  ;  moderation  in  prosperity,  patience  in  adversity, 
submission  to  the  will  of  God,  and  charity  and  forgiven --SB 
to  men,  amidst  the  w.rious  competitions  of  worldly  inten  st, 

S'i'-h  is  the  plan  of  Divine  wisdom  for  man's  improve- 
m  ;>i  But  put  the  case,  that  the  plan  devised  by  hair,  n 
wisdom  were  tot;'ke  place.,  and  that  the  rewards  pi  the  just 
were  to  be  more  fully  displayed  to  view  ;  the  ex  rcisc  of  .ill 
those  graces  which  I  have/  mentioned,  would  be  entu-ly 
superseded.  Their  very  names  would  be  unknown.  F'ery 
temptation  being  withdrawn,  every  worldly  attachment  be- 
in^  ubdued  by  the  overpowering  discoveries  of  eternity, 
no  trial  of  sincerity,  no  discrimination  of  characters,  would 
rem  nn  ;  no  opportunity  would  be  afforded  for  those  active 
e.xertions,  which  are  the  means  of  purifying  and  perfecting 
the  good.  On  the  competition  between  time  and  eternity, 
depends  the  chief  exercise  of  human  virtue.  The  obscurity 
which  at  present  hangs  over  eternal  objects,  preserves  the 
competition.  Remove  that  obscurity,  and  you  remove  hu- 
man virtue  from  its  place.  Y  u  overthrow  that  whole  sys- 
tem of  discipline,  by  which  imperfect  creatures  are,  in  thb 
life,  gradually  trained  up  for  a  more  perfect  state. 

This,  then,  is  the  conclusion  to  which  at  last  we  arrive  ; 
that  the  full  display  v,  hich  was  demanded,  of  the  heavenly 
glory,  would  be  so  far  from  improving  the  hvmian  soul,  that 
it  would  abolish  those  virtues  and  duties,  which  are  the 
g*  -U  instruments  of  its  improvement.  It  would  be  unsuit- 
able to  the  character  of  man  in  every  view,  either  as  an  ac- 
tive being,  or  a  moral  agent.  It  would  disqualify  him  5-rom 
taking  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  world  ;  for  relishing  the 
pleasures,  or  for  discharging  the  duties  of  life  :  in  a  word, 
it  would  entirely  defeat  the  purpose  of  his  being  placed  on 
this,  earth.  And  the  question,  why  the  Almighty  has  been 


Sttjiicl  to  the  English  Reader. 

to  leave  a  spiritn  il  world,  and  tiu   future  existence 
°f  :;  -olves  ii)  i\i,-  (  hi  ,:ilo 

tm-  '  ri'    shpul  attire    as    m.m    in 

urn  Go'i  ?  —  >  iiuprovvmi  nts 

;  Mis  of   P  '.      1'h,  \    ;,,;C! 

incovfrri*  .   \  (]om  ol    (iocl,  and  of 

•  •>n     n.i  f^lK   of  mm.  BLAIR. 


rION    ii.  —  )~>  .-///;  -.v  //,  :/;  y^r 

f/v. 

THE  duty  which   young  •>•  their  instrurtor.sv 

t;)f    ?H    !)cttx  '  the  cfU  tc  wliith    tht    in- 

Sti  .i;  tioiis    I'M-  v  i  i  th,  in.        1'ney   uou'd    do 

:     .:      .11  ,,    at- 

'jntotlivs-    two  t:  .a  importance,  'MI. 

lt«l  -n. 

us  branches, 
;;<  iii  raliy  consi<K  it  d 
•U'ti'M,,)  is  to  IV.  i   IK-  ii.invl  In,  in  ihr 
ol  i  ^i\\    if  jus'.r-r  ;i:vl  iiioie  rnl.rged 

ce;>iitJiis,  ih.»n    -an-  tiu  •  iin-rc    growih  ol    i   i  i«     n.»iurc.       liy 

v   of  oih«/i  s  -  »  -nir  own.    It  is 
it    ir.i.k-  s  tiu 
i  one  man   a  real 

Hesi'Ks,  the  n\ind  must  bccovpl<M^d.  I'he  lower  orders 
of  m^  n  have  tinir  attention  much  tn^rosstd  b)  those  em- 
ployments, in  which  tin  necessities  oi  life  engage  tlu  m  : 
and  it  is  happy  that  ilh-y  have.  Labour  stands  in  the  room 
of  education  ;  and  fills  up  those  vacancies  ot  mind,  \\hich, 
in  A  state  of  idleness,  would  be  engrossed  by  vice.  An  ••  if 
they,  who  have  more  leisure,  do  not  substitute  something 
in  the  room  of  this,  their  minds  also  will  become  the  prey 
oi  vice  ;  and  the  more  so,  as  thev  have  the  means  to  in- 
dulge it  more  T»  tin.  ir  power.  A  vacant  mind  is  exactly 
that  house  mentioned  in  the  gospel,  wi,i<  h  the  devil  found 
empty,  ^n  he  entered  ;  and  taking  with  him  seven  other 
spirits  more  wicked  than  himself,  they  took  pe- 
ls an  undoubted  truth,  that  one  vice  indulged,  intr^duve.. 
others;  and  that  each  succeeding  vice  becomes  n  iv  de- 
praved. —  If  then  the  mind  must  be  employed,  what  cat- 


Argumentative  Pieces.  47 

up  its  vacuities  more  rationally  than  the  acquisition  of 
knowledge?  Let  us  therefore  thank  God  for  the  opportu- 
nities he  has  afforded  us;  and  not  turn  into  a  curse  those 
means  ot  leisure,  which  might  become  so  great  a  blessing. 

But  however  necessary  to  us  knowledge  may  be,  reli- 
gion, e  know,  is  infinitely  more  so.  J"he  one  adorns  a 
man,  and  gives  him,  it  is  true,  superiority,  and  rank  in  lilej 
but  the  other  is  absolutely  essential  to  his  happiness. 

In  the  midst  of  youth,  health,  and  abundance,  the  world 
is  apt  to  appear  a  very  gav  and  pleasing  scene  ;  it  engages 
our  desires  ;  and,  in  a  d-,  gree,  satisfies  thrm  also.  But  it  15 
wisdom  to  consider,  that  a  time  will  come,  when  youth, 
he  Uth,  and  fortune,  will  all  fail  us:  and  if  disappointment 
and  vexation  do  not  sour  our  taste  lor  pleasure,  at  least 
sickness  and  infirmities  will  destroy  it.  In  these  gloomy 
s^  asons,  and,  above  all,  at  the  approach  of  death,  what  will 
become  of  us  without  religion  ?  When  this  world  faiis3 
win- re  shad  we  flv,  if  we  expect  no  refuge  in  another? 
Without  holy  hope  in  God,  and  resignation  to  his  will,  and 
trust  in  him  tor  deliverance,  what  is  there  that  can  secure 
us  against  the  evils  ot  life? 

The  great  utility  therefore  of  knowledge  and  religion 
being  thus  apparent,  it  is  highly  incumbent  upon  us  to  \»<\y 
a  studious  attention  to  them  in  our  youth.  It  we  do  not  it 
is  more  than  probable  th«at  we  shall  never  do  it:  that  \vc 
shall  grow  old  in  ignorance,  by  neglecting  the  one  ;  and  old 
in  vice,  by  neglecting  the  other 

For  improvement  in  knowl-  dge,  youth  is  certainly  the 
fittest  st.  ison.  The  mind  i*  'hen  reads  to  receive,  any  im*» 
pression.  It  is  free  from  all  that  can-  md  attention  whicix 
in  npt-r  age,  the  affairs  of  lite  bri»  g  with  th  m  Tin  n.r- 
morv  too  is  vtronu<  r  and  better  able  to  acquit  e  the  rucli- 
Tvi  nts  oi  knowledge  ;  and  as  th;  mind  is  the  n  void  of  id  :.s3 
it  is  more  suited  to  those  parts  01  learning  which  are  con- 
versant in  words.  Besides,  there  au  sometinv  s  in  youth  a 
modestv  and  ductility,  which,  in  advanced  years,  if  those 
years  especially  havr  been  Kit  a  prey  to  ignorant  i  ,  become 
self  suffi  icncv  and  prejudice:  ;  and  these  *  f{<  ctU'.lh  bar  up 
a!.-  tlu  inlets  to  knowledg-  .  —  But,  above  all,  'ir.Lss  ha-;ts 
o  r.ie  Ymn  ;'jnd  aprlication  ,.re  •  arl  ^  intf  ,  \Vc  shnll 
l^  acquire  tticin  afterwards, — The 


48  Sequel  to  the 

youth  seldom  r«  fleets  upon  this  ;  nor  knows  his  losrs,  till  he 
knows  also  that  if  cannot  he  retrieved. 

Nor  is  youth  more  the  season  to  acquire  knowledge,  than 
to  !'«>rm  religious  habits.  It  is  a  great  point  to  jret  habit  on 
the.  side  of"  virtue:  it  will  make  everything  smooth  and 
easy.  The  earliest  principles  are  generally  the  most  last- 
ing ;  and  those  of  a  religious  cast  are  seldom  wholly  lost, 
,  Though  the  temptations  of  the  world  may,  now  and  then, 
"draw  the  well-principled  youth  aside  ;  yet  his  principles  be- 
ing continually  at  war  with  his  practice,  there  is  hope,  that 
in  ihe  end  the  better  part  may  overcome  the  worse,  and 
bring  on  a  reformation  :  whereas  he,  who  has  suffered  ha- 
bits of  vice  to  get  possession  of  his  youth,  has  little  chance 
of  being  brought  back  to  a  sense  of  religion.  In  the  com- 
mon course  of  things  it  can  rarely  happen.  Some  calamity 
must  roust  him.  He  must  be  awakened  by  a  storm,  or  si  ep 
for  ever. — How  much  better  is  it  then  to  make  that  easy 
to  us,  which  we  know  is  best  !  And  to  form  those  habits 
now,  which  hereafter  we  shall  wish  we  had  formed! 

There  are  p^pons,  who  would  restrain  youth  from  im- 
bibing any  religious  principles,  till  they  can  judge  for  tht  m- 
Srlv-s  ;  lest  they  should  imbibe  prejudice  for  truth.  But 
vhv  should  not  the  same  caution  be  used  in  science  ai-<>  ; 
and  the  minds  of  youth  left  void  of  all  impressions?  The 
experiment,  I  fear,  in  both  cases,  would  be  dangerous.  If 
the  mind  w*  re  left  uncultivated  during  so  long  a  period, 
though  nothing  elsr  should  find  entrance,  vice  certainly 
V  onld  :  and  it  would  make  th<  larger  shoots,  as  the  soil 
would  '>e  vacant.  It  would  he  better  that  young  persons  re- 
c-  ive  knowledge  and  religion  mix-;d  with  error,  than  none 
at  ;»11.  For  \\hi-n  the  mind  comes  to  r  fleet,  it  may  deposit 
i's  prejudices  by  degrees,  and  get  right  at  last:  but  in  a 
3tare  of  stagna'ion  it  will  ini;.lli!>lv  became  foul. 

To  conclude,  'Uir  youth  bears  the  same  proportion  to  onr 
snore  advanced  life,  as  this  world  does  to  the  next.  In  this 
1  '  ,  we  must  form  and  cultivate  th<  se  habits  of  virtue, 
vhich  will  qualify  us  for  a  better  state.  If  we  negiect  them 
h»-  r,  and  contract  habits  of  an  o -posit-.-  kind,  instead  of 
gaining  that  *  xalted  stafe,  which  is  promi  e  to  <>;i: •  m*- 
provrnvm,  we-  sh  11  of  Lourst-.  sink  'nm  that  blait,  which  18 
au»4'Ud  to  the  habits  we  have  formed. 


A  rgu  m  ei  /  *  • .  / 1  o  c-  PI  cces.  49 

Exactly  thus  is  youth  introductory  to  manhood  ;  to 
which  it  is,  properly  speaking,  a  stale  of  preparation. 

During  this  season  we  mu*t  qualify  ourselvt-s  lor  the 
parts  we  are  to  act  hereafter.  In  manhood  we  bear  the 
fruity  which  has  in  youth  he  in  planted.  li  we  have  saun- 
tered away  our  youth,  we  must  expect  Jo  be  ignorant  men. 
If  indolence  and  inattention  have  taken  an  early  possession 
of  us,  they  will  prohahly  increase  as  we  advance  in  life  ; 
and  make  us  a  burden  to  ourselves,  and  useless  to  society. 
If  again,  we  suffer  ourselves  to  he  misled  by  vicious  incli- 
nations, the\  will  daily  get  m  w  strength,  and  end  in  disso- 
lute lives.  But  if  we  cultivate  our  minds  in  youth,  attain 
habits  of  attention  and  industry,  of  virtue  and  sobriety,  we 
shall  find  ourselves  vvtll  prepared  to  act  our  future  parts  in 
life  ;  and  what  above  all  things  might  to  be  our  care,  by 
gaining  this  command  over  ourselves,  we  shall  be  more 
able,  as  we  get  forward  in  the  world,  to  resist  every  new 
temptation,  as  soon  as  it  appears.  GILPIN. 

SECTION   in. —  The  truth  of  Christianity  proved,  from  the 
conversion  oj  the  Apostle  Paul.* 

The  conversion  of  St.  Paul,  with  all  its  atten  lant  cir- 
cumstances, furnish  s  one  of  the  most  satisfacior  proofs, 
that  have  ever  been  given,  of  the  Divine  origin  ot  oui  o!y 
religion.  That  this  eminent  person,  from  being  a  Zealous 
persecutor  of  the1  disciples  of  Christ,  bvc.airie,  all  at  one*  ,  a, 
disciple  himself,  is  a  fact  which  cannot  be  <-«>mro\  < -ru-vi, 
\\  rKout  overturning  the  credit  of  all  h-siorv.  He  must, 
therefore,  have  been  converted  iu  he  miraculous  manner 
ai'.^gt  (I  by  himself,  and  of  course  the  Christian  religion  be 
a  Divine  revtlation  ;  or  he  must  have  been  an  '.-npostor,  an 
enthusiast,  or  a  dupe  to  the  fraud  of  others.  There  is  not 
another  alternative  possible. 

If  he  was  an  impostor,  who  declared  what  he  knew  to 
b«-  false,  he  must  have  been  induced  to  act  that  part,  by 
some  motive.  But  the  oniy  conceivable  motives  for  ivli- 
Itgtoiis  imposture,  are  the  hopes  of  a  -varx  ing  one's  tem- 
poral interest,  credit,  or  power;  or  trie  prosptct  of  grktifv- 
itig  some  passion  or  appetite,  under  th  authority  "of  .he 

*  This  piece  is  extracted  from  the  "  Ri  ,;ca."  It  »9 

a-  H'?T^fl^c-!Tic'it  of  lord   Lyttleton's  ceicoi^cca  "  Ubscrvauoas  on  Uie 
Conversion  of  St.  Paul." 


Sequel  to  the  E^lish  Renter. 

religion.  That  none  of  these  could  he  St.  Paul's  mo- 
tives lor  professing  the  iaith  ol'  Christ  cruuiu  d,  is  j)luin 
from  the  state  of  Judaism  and  Christianitv,  at  the  period 
of  his  forsaking  the  former,  and  embracing  the  latter  iaith. 
Th  •)  he  left,  were  the  disposers  n\  wealth,  of  dig- 

niry,  of  power,  in   ludea:  those  to  whom  he  went,  were  m- 
-iit  men,  oppressed,  and  k'-pt  from  all  means  of  impro- 
•;th-  ir  to -i.m.  s.     Th,    c   rtain  consequence,  therefore,  of 
taking  the  part  of  Christianity,  wa->  tn     ios*  not  onl\  of 
all  that  he  [-•  I,  hut  ol    all    hpprs  of  acquiring  more: 

wlii  reas  \>\  continuing  to  persecute  the  Christians  he  had 
hopes,  rising  almost  10  certaum,  of  m  'km_;  his  iortune  by 
the  favour  of  thos  \vhowere  at  the  h<  ad  oi  the  Jv\\i-h 
state,  to  whom  nothing  could  so  mucn  rccommeivi  him,  as 
the  zeal  whirh  he  had  shown  in  that  pers  cunon.  —  As  to 
cre-iit  or  repufation,  could  the  scholar  ol  Gamaliel  iv -JK  to 
gain  eith  -r,  by  becoming  a  teat  her  in  a  coil«.-gi  of  hsru-r- 
in.  n  ?  Coal  I  he  Hatter  himsi  li,  that  tile  iloc  nn.-s  whu  h  he 
taught  would,  either  in  or  out  ol  Judea,  do  him  honour, 
vh'-n  he  knew  that  u  tht  y  uen  t<j  iht.  J -ws  a  stumbling 
block,  and  t«>  the  (ireeks  ioolishnt  s>  ?  " — \Vas  it  thru  the 
love  of  power,  that  induct  1  him  to  maK«  ihis  great  change? 
Powi  .  !  over  whom?  over  a  flock  of  she  p,  nln-m  he  h  tri- 
sel!  had  endeavoured  to  cestrov,  and  whos«  very  Shepherd 
had  la  r-ly  been  mur  Kre  '.  !  —  Perhaps  it  was  with  the  view 
of  gratifying  some  licentious  passion,  under  the  authority 
ol  the  n-  vv  rel;£i  n,  that  he  commenced  u  teacher  oi  that 
r  u'»»inn!  This  caiuiot  be  ;d?«-g  d  :  (or  his  writings  breathe 
n<>thmg  but  the  strictest  m»ralii\  ;  obedienc  e  t«>  sna^i^lrr.les, 
order,  and  uo\  •.  rnm<  nt :  v\  ith  thi  utmost  abhorrence  oi  all 
lic--nfiMusn  ss.  ull.  n<  ss.  or  loose  I  r,  under  the  cloak 

o  »el:giou.  W  no  ^  her.  n  ad  in  nis  wc-rks,  ihat  saints  are 
a*M)V\-  nmr -1  •  r-'.inancis;  thr»t  dominioti  rs  loun<.ied  in  grace; 
th  .  monai  h  is  dv  potism  which  ou^ht  to  i)e  abolished; 
ti^.ar  T.h,  fortune  of  rhe  «i»  h  oug.u  to  be  divid  d  among  cue 
poor;  that  there  is  no  •  ifiFer*.  nc  in  mor  d  tctions  ;  that  any 
imj-ulsfs  of  the  mino!  are  to  direct  us  against  th-.-  li^ht  of 
r  ^  .!  d  religion  an-.!  th-  laws  of  n  -turt  i  or  an\  oi  those 
\vi--kr-cl  tenets  by  vvhu  h  the  peace  of  society  has  bt  <  n  of- 
tvM  disturbed,  and  th  vules  o?  inoralit\  have  I)  en  ok  n 
viol.sted,  by  men  pretending  to  a*  T  un  '»  r  th  sanction  ot 
Dn  im-  rt\-.  ''•  ,ui  ^n.  [I  n.;  •-  no  ,;isc  >€ti<  e  m- 

posior  oi    Arabia,  iu  i«ivuur  01  iiunscli  ±  not  dots  aii\  part 


Afgument&twe  Pisces*  51 

t)f  his  lite,  either  before  or  liter  us  conversion  to  Chv  s- 
tia  >iiv  ,  bear  am  nv.rk  of  a  libertine  disposition.  As  a-i'.orig 
the  }•  ws,  so  a.noug  the  Christians,  his  conversation  and 
maniu  rs  were  bt -mdess. 

As  St.  Paul  was  n-./t  an  impostor,  so  it  is  pi  nn  he  wus 
no;  an  enthusiast.  He.  t  of  temper,  mel  incnor, ,  ignoranc^, 
creduiitv,  and  vanity,  arc-  the  ingredients  ol  \\ :  :i  rjUnUsft 
asm  is  composed:  hut  from  all  these,  except  LH  lirsi,  the 
apostle  appears  to  hav*-  been  whulh  fret  .  That  h.  Mad 
gr.  it  fervour  of  zeai,  hoth  wlun  a  jew  and  when  a  (/hns- 
t:an,  in  ir,  iintainin^  what  he  thought  to  be  right, caonot  be 
d'.  nii-d  :  but  he  was  at  all  vimcs  so  .IHK  h  mast,  r  ot  his  u-in- 
pt-r,  as,  in  tnatti-rs  of  indilis  r»  tict-,  c^  a  !v.  (:->ri\e  cdl  things  to 
all  aieii  ;  '  with  the  most  pliant  c<»ndt  scension,  b.-iKluii«;  ins 
nutiofis  and  manners  to  theirs,  as  tar  as  his  duty  to  God 
would  permit;  a  conduct  compatible  neith-  r  with  the  siuf- 
iu-ss  of  a  bigot,  nor  with  the  violrnt  impulses  oi  Unatii  al 
delusion. —  lMr»  (t  hr  was  not  iiu-lam  hoiv  is  plain  trom  his 
conduct  in  embracing  every  method,  uhich  prudenctrcould 
auggest,  to  escape  danger  and  shun  persecution,  vvh»jn  tie 
could  do  it,  without  betraying  the  duty  of  his  offitv,  or  the 
honour  of  his  God.  A  m<  lancholx  enthusiast  courts  j)er^e- 
ciuion  ;  and  when  he  cannot  obt  ;in  it,  atliicts  h'unseii  with 
a'--urd  p(  nances  ;  hut  the  holiness  of  St  Paul  consisted  111 
th-  simplicit}'  of  a  pious  life,  and  in  the  unwearied  perform- 
ance ot  his  apostolical  duties* — That  he  was  ignorant,  no 
man  will  all'.-ge  who  is  not  grossly  ignorant  himself;  ior  he 
appears  to  have  been  master,  not  only  of  the  J  wish  learn- 
in  .  but  also  of  th^  Greek  philosophy,  and  to  have  been 
very  conv  rsant  ew  n  with  the  Greek  po.ts.  That  he  was 
not.  credulous,  is  plain  from  his  having  resisted  the  evi- 
dence of  all  the  miracU-s  prriormed  on  earth  by  Christ,  as 
Weil  as  those  that  were  afterwards  w  rked  by  the  apostl-  s; 
to  tile  lame  of  which,  as  he  lived  in  Jerusalem,  he  could 
not  have  been  a  sirangi-r. — And  that  he  was  as  free  from 
vanity  as  any  man  that  ever  lived,  may  be  %  tthered  from 
all  that  we  see  in  his  writings,  or  know  of  his  life.  He  re- 
presents himself  as  the  least  oi  the  apostles,  and  not  meet 
to  be  called  an  apostle,  lie  says  that  he  is  the  chief  01  sin- 
ners ;  and  he  prefers,  in  the  strongest  terms,  universal  be- 
nevoience  to  faith,  and  prophecy,  mid  miracles,  and  all  the 


52  Sequel  to  the  English  Render. 

giris  nnd  gnu  t  s  .v  u  •     .  rne;i  ;ic-  could  i>c  endowed.     Is  this 
the  language  oi  vanity  or  enthusiasm  .' 

tiuis  shoun  that  St.  Paul  was  neither  an  i.npos- 
tor  nor  an  enthusiast,  it  n  mains  onlx  to  be  inquired,  whc- 
th  r  he  was  deceiv  d  bv  th<-  liaucl  of  others:  but  this  in- 
qnirv  needs  not  be  long;  for  who  was  to  deceive  him  ?  A 
it  u  illiterate  fishermen  of  GalUlec  ?  I;  impos- 

sil'l  tor  such  nii-n  to  rono-ixr  the-  thought  ot  turning  the 
most  enlightened  of  their  opponents,  and  the  crueh  st  of 
itors,  into  an  apostle  ;  and  to  do  this  b\  a  fraud, 
in  he  very  instant  of  his  greatest  furx  i^amst  them  and 
th«  ir  Lord,  Hut  cculd  ih  is  to 

iv       -  i«  i)  a  thought,  it  w  ior 

then,  to  Vu  ii  w t    ;  .»n- 

vt  i-  .  tt-d.     Gould  they  product  m   th<e 

I'.-h    ,t  m.  i>»  l)ri^htcr  tharj  tii  Co.. Id 

th   \    -nake    S.iul    he  >r  words  from    that   li^lv,    \\hicii  ^v »  re 
n»;  In  ai  a  K\    tlie  i ^  st  of  the   compam  ?      C  y  make 

h,m  ')iuni    lor  ilirrc   days  after   that  vision,  ami  tlvn  make 
seal'  irom    his  1    restore    him    to   si^}u    i)V  a 

wo.clr    ()»,  ro.ild  th  !   those  who  travelled 

with  him,  beliex  •  «pi  '  IlCvi>   ^ 

s   li.id  not   h.ippinedr      Alost   u- q  '>ly  no  fraud 

•1  to  Jl  ;!ns. 

Since  tlu-n  St.  Paul  v.  in    impostor,  an  enthusiast, 

or  a  |v 

liis  honvefsi<na  was  miraculous,  and   that  tiic  Christian   re- 
ligion is  a    Divine  revelation. 


CHAPTKR   IV.— DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 

SFCTION  }  —  i  and  the  earth  show  the ^ Ion f  and 

r  Creator. —  The  earth  happily  adapted 

to  the  nature  'jj  r.iav. 

TH^  u •-.  y  be  considered  as  the  p alace  in  which 

tV'.e  Deity  r;  ;vi  the  earta,  as  one  ot  us  apartmr; 

In  this,  'all  the  <ne;uu  r  races  of  ani;n.tttd  nature  mechani- 
cally obcv  him  ;  and  stand  ready  to  execute  his  com  mis, 
without  hesitation.  Man  alone  is  toi-nd  refractory  :  he  is 
the  only  IK- ing  en  lued  with  i  pow  T  -f  coivraJinin^  these 
cs.  The  Deity  was  ple-^eU  to  cxe-rt  supeiior  power 


Descripfivs  Pieces.  53 

in  creating  him  a  supv  n<,r  being  ;  a  being  endued  \vitii  a 
chov  of  ,j; .»  ;d  and  e\  il  ,  and  capab!'.  ,  in  som<-  rneasiifc-,  of 
€(>•<>,,:  laimg  .it:»  his  own  muntioiib.  Man,  therefore,  may 
be  consider*,  d  as  a  limit  u  c  c  ;Uuv,  v  n<;u  u  with  powers 
imuauve  of  thus*/,  r  ssdmg  in  the  D  ity.  iie  is  thrown  into 
a  world  that  stands  in  need  ot  ins  Help;  md  ht  ha*  ;i 
granted  a  power  oi  producing  h^rmon)  trom  partial  contu- 
s'r  ^n. 

It\  therelore,  we  consider  the  earth  as  allotted  for  our 
habitation,  we  shall  find,  that  much  has  been  given  us  to 
rnjo\ ,  and  much  to  amend  ;  th  it  we  have  ample  rras'-ns 
for  oil-1'  gratitude,  and  many  for  our  indilstry*  In  those 
gr-  it  outlines  ot  nature,  to  which  art  cannot  reach,  add 
where  our  greatest  ^iforis  nmst  have  heen  ineffectual,  God 
himself  has  finished  ev'-ry  thing  with  am  >z.ng  grandeur 
and  beauty.  Our  htnefic-nt  Father  has  considered  these 
parts  ot  nature  as  peculiarly  his  own;  as  parts  winch  no 
creature  could  have  skill  or  strength  to  amend  :  and  he  has9 
th~r<-t  ,  made  them  incapable  ot  alteration  or  ot  more 
pert*  ct  regal  iritv.  The  heav-.  ns  an  I  the  iirmament  stiosv 
th  wisdom  and  the  glory  of  the  Workman.  Astronomers^ 
who  »re  best  skilled  in  the  symmetry  of  systems,  can  find 
nothing  there  that  they  can  alt  r  for  the  better.  God  made 
thest  perfect,  because  no  subordinate  being  could  correct 
theii  defects 

When,  therefore,  we  survey  nature  on  this  side,  nothing 
can  be  more  splendid,  more  correct  or  amazing.  We  there 
b'  hold  a  Deify  residing  in  tru  midst  of  a  universe,  infinite- 
ly extended  every  way,  animating  all,  and  cheering  the  va- 
cuity with  his  presence.  We  behold  an  immense  and  shape- 
less mass  ot  matter,  formed  into  worlds  by  his  power,  and 
dispersed  at  intervals,  to  which  even  the  imagination  can- 
not travel.  In  this  great  theatre  of  his  glory,  a  thousand 
sun>,  like  oar  own,  animate  their  respective  systems  ap- 
pearing and  vanishing  at  Divine  command.  We  behold  ouv 
own  bright  luminary,  fix.  d  in  the  centre  of  its  syst-.-m, 
wheeling  its  planet-,  in  tim  s  proportioned  to  their  clist  m- 
ees,  and  at  once  dispensing  %ht,  heat,  and  action.  The 
earth  also  is  seen  with  its  twofold  motion;  producing,  by 
th  nut-,  the  change  of  seasons  ;  an,!,  by  tin.  other,  tru  ;M  ;rtj. 
ini  v  icisskudes  o?  !  \  and  night.  With  what  sil.  nt  magni- 
ficence is  all  this  performed !  with  what  sccamig  case  :  i  ne 


to  the  English 

^'<>tks  of  art  arc  exerted  with  interrupted  force  ;  and  their 
noisy  progress  discovers  thi  obstructions  truy  receive  ;  but 
tlv  earth,  with  a  silent,  steady  rotation,  successive!)  pre- 
sent^ every  part  of  its  bosom  to  the  sun  ;  at  once  imbibing 
him  nt  and  light  from  that  parent  ot  vegetation  and 
fertility. 

Bui  not  only  provisions  of  heat  and  light  are  thus  sup- 
plied ;  the  whole  surface  of  the  earth  is  covered  with  a 
transparent  atm  >sphere,  that  turns  with  its  motion,  and 
guards  it  from  external  injury.  The  rays  of  the  sun  are 
thus  broken  into  a  genial  warmth;  and,  while  the  surface 
is  assisted,  a  gentle  heat  is  produced  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth,  which  contributes  to  cover  it  with  verdure.  Wat',  rs 
>  it  re  supplied  in  healthful  abundance,  to  support  life, 
r.nd  assist  vegetation. 

Mountains  rise  to  diversify  the  prospect,  and  give  a  cur- 
rent to  the  stream.  Seas  extend  from  one  continent  to  the 
oth  r,  replenished  with  animals," that  may  be  turned  to  hu- 
man support ;  and  also  serving  to  enrich  the  earth  with  a 
ruihric  ncy  of  vapour.  Breezes  fly  along  the  surface  of  the 
.-fields,  to  promote  health  and  vegetation.  The  coolness  of 
the  evening  invites  to  rest;  and  the  freshness  of  the  morn- 
ing renews  for  labour. 

Such  are  the  delights  of  the  habitation  that  has  been  as- 
signed to  man  :  without  any  one  of  these,  he  must  have 
been  wretched  ;  and  none  of  these  could  his  own  industry 
have  supplied.  But  while,  on  the  one  hand,  many  of  his 
wants  are  thus  kindly  furnished,  there  are,  on  the  other, 
numberless  inconveniences  to  excite  his  industry.  This  ha- 
bitation, though  prov  dec!  with  all  the  conveniences  of  air, 
pasturage,  and  water,  is  but  a  desert  place,  without  human 
cultivation.  The  lowest  animal  finds  more  conveniences  in 
the  wilds  of  nature,  than  he  who  boasts  himself  their  lord. 
The  whirlwind,  the  inundation,  and  all  the  asperities  of  the 
nir,  are  peculiarly  terrible  to  roan,  who  knows  their  conse- 
quences, and,  at  a  distance,  dreads  their  approach.  The 
earth  itself,  where  human  art  has  not  pervaded,  puts  on  a 
frightful,  gloomy  appearance.  The  forests  are  dark  and 
tangled  ;  the  meadows  are  overgrown  with  r  ink  weeds  ; 
and  the  brooks  str.iy  without  a  dcr  rmim-d  channel  Na- 
ture, ?hjt  h  is  !>. -en  kin  >  to  every  lower  order  oi  beings, 
seems  to  have  been  neglectful  with  regard  him  :  to  the  sa- 


Descriptive  Pieces.  55" 

vage  uncontriving  man,  the  earth  is  an  abode  of  desolation. 
where  his  shelter  is  insufficient,  and  his  food  precarious. 

A  world  thus  furnished  with  advantages  on  one  sidr,  and 
inconveniences  on  the  other,  is  the  proper  abode  of  reason, 
and  the  fittest  to  exercise  the  industry  of  a  free  and  a  think- 
ing creature.  These  evils,  which  art  can  remedy,  and  pre- 
science guard  against,  are  a  proper  call  for  the  exertion  of 
his  faculties  ;  and  they  tend  still  more  to  assimilate  him  to 
his  Creator.  God  beholds,  with  pleasure,  that  being  which 
he  has  made,  converting  the  wretchedness  of  his  natural 
situation  into  a  theatre  of  triumph;  bringing  all  the  head- 
long tribes  of  nature  into  subjection  to  his  will  ;  and  pro- 
ducing that  order  and  uniformity  upon  earth,  of  which  his 
own  heavenly  fabric  is  so  bright  an  example.  —  GOLDSMITH. 


SECTION  11.  —  An  eruption  of  mount  V 
IN  the  year  1717,  in  the  middle  of  April,  with  much  dif- 
ficulty I  reached  the  top  of  mount  Vesuvius,  in  which  I 
saw  a  vast  aperture  tull  of  smoke,  that  hindered  me  from 
seeing  its  depth  and  figure.  I  heard  within  that  horrid  gnlf, 
extraordinary  s  -.Hinds,  which  seemed  to.  proceed  i  om  the 
bowels  of  the  mountain  ;  and,  at  hit  rv.ils,  a  noise  like  that 
of  thunder  or  cannon,  with  a  clattering  like  the  falling  of 
tiles  irom  the  tops  of  houses  into  the  streets.  Sometimes, 
as  the  wind  changed,  the  smoke  gr«:w  thinner,  discovering 
a  very  ruddy  flame,  and  the  citcu  inference  of  ihr  cr;«cer 
streaked  with  red  and  several  shades  of  yellow.  After  in 
hour's  stay  the  smoke  being  moved  by  the  wind,  we  had 
short  and  partial  prospects  of  the  great  hollow  ;  in  the  Hat 
bottom  of  which  I  could  discern  two  furnaces  almost  con- 
tiguous :  that  on  the  left,  seeming  ibout  three  yards  ovvr, 
glowhig  with  ruddy  flame,  and  throwing  up  red  hot  stones, 
\vith  a  hideous  noise,  which,  as  they  fell  back,  caused  the 
clattering  already  taken  notice  of.  May  8,  in  the  morning, 
I  ascended  the  top  of  Vesuvius  a  second  time,  and  found 
a  different  face  of  things.  The  smoke  asc«  nding  upright, 
afforded  a  full  prospect  of  the  crater,  which,  as  far  as  I 
could  judge,  was  about  a  mile  in  circumtVrtnct  ,  and  a  hun- 
dred \  ards  deep.  Since  <Yiy  last  visit,  :;,  conical  mount  had 
been  formed  in  the  middle  of  the  bottom.  This  was  made 
by  the  stones,  thrown  up  and  fallen  back  again  into  the  era- 


o6  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

ter.  In  this  new  hill  remained  tht:  two  furnaces  already 
mentioned.  The  one  was  seen  to  throw  up  every  tim  «  or 
four  minutes,  with  a  dreadful  sound,  a  vast  number  oi  n  d 
hot  stones,  at  least  three  hundred  feet  higher  than  my  head: 
bin  as  there  was  no  wind,  they  fell  perpendicularly  back 
from  whence  they  ha  i  been  dis^hargt  d.  The  other  was 
filit-d  with  red  hot  liquid  matter,  like  that  in  the  furnace  of 
a  ^lass-house;  raging  and  working  like  the  waves  of  the 
se.;,  with  a  short  abrupt  noise.  This  matter  sometimes 
boiled  over,  and  ran  down  the  side  of  the  conical  hill,  ap- 
p-  •  ng  at  first  red  hot,  but  changing  colour  as  it  hardened 
and  cooled.  Had  the  wind  s<  t  towards  us,  we  should  have 
be«-n  in  no  small  danger  of  being  stifled  by  ihe  sulphurous 
smoke,  or  killed  by  the  masses  ol  melted  minerals  that  vvi  re 
sh  >'  .r<  in  the  bottom.  But  as  the  yvind  was  favourable,  I 
bad  ui  opportunity  of  surveying  this  amazing  seem  lor 
above  an  hour  and  a  half  together.  On  the  fifth  of  June, 
alu-r  a  horrid  noise,  the  mountain  was  seen  at  Naples  to 
work  over ;  and  about  three  clays  after,  its  thunders  were 
so  reneyved,  that  not  only  the  windows  in  the  city,  but  all 
the  houses  shook.  From  that  time,  it  continued  to  overflow, 
and  sometimes  at  night  exhibited  columns  of  fire  shooting 
upwa  d  from  its  summit.  On  the  10th,  when  all  was  thought 
to  be  over,  the  mountain  again  renewed  its  terrors,  roaring 
an  i  raging  most  violently.  One  cannot  iorm  a  juster  idea 
of  the  noise,  in  the  most  violent  fits  ot  it,  than  by  imagin- 
ing a  mixed  sound,  made  up  of  the  raging  of  a  tempest, 
the  murmur  of  a  troubled  sea,  and  the  roaring  of  thunder 
and  artillery,  all  confused  together.  Though  we  heard  this 
at  the  distance  of  twelve  miles,  yet  it  yvas  very  terrible. 
We  resolved  to  approach  nearer  to  the  mountain  ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, three  or  four  of  us  entered  a  boat,  and  were  set 
asnore  at  a  little  town,  situatt  d  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
Fiom  thence  we  rode  about  four  or  five  miles  before  we 
cauie  to  the  torrent  ot  fire  that  yvas  descending  trom  the 
si  ;  of  the  volcano;  and  here  the  roaring  grew  exceeding- 
ly ud  and  terrible-  1  observed  a  mixture  of  colours  in  the 
tK- - •;,  a^ve  th,  crater,  green,  yellow,  red,  blue.  There 
was  likewise  a  ruddy  dismal  lii*ht  in  the  air,  ov-.-r  that  tract 
*h  r<:  rhK  burning  rive?  flawed.  These  cucum-s  .;nces,  s 
•ff  and  augmented  by  die  honor  of  thu  night,  forme  i  a 
scene  the  most  uncommon  and  astonishing  i  ever  saw ; 


Descriptive  Pieces.  57 

which  still  increased  as  we.  approached  the  burning  river, 
A  vast  torrent  of  liquid  fire  rolled  from  the  top,  down  the 
sidt  of  the  mountain,  and  with  irresistible  fury  bore  down 
an«l  consigned  vines,  olives,  and  houses  ;  and  divided  into 
different  :  hannels,  according  to  the  inequalities  of  the 
mountain.  The  largest  stream  seemed  at  least  half  u  mile 
broad,  and  five  miles  long.  I  walked  before  my  compa- 
nions so  far  up  the  mountain,  along  the  side  of  ths  river  of 
fire,  that  I  was  obliged  to  retire  in  great  haste  ;  the  sulphu- 
rous steam  having  surprised  me,  and  almost  taken  away 
my  breath.  During  our  return,  which  was  about  3  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  the  roaring  of  the  mountain  was  heard  all 
the  way,  while  we  observed  it  throwing  up  huge  spouts  of 
fire  and  burning  stones,  which  falling,  resembled  the  stars 
in  a  rocket.  Sometimes  I  observed  two  or  three  distinct 
columns  of  flame,  and  sometimes  one  only  that  was  large 
enough  to  fill  the  whole  crater.  These  burning  columns, 
and  fiery  stones,  seemed  to  be  shot  a  thousand  feet  perpen- 
dicular above. the  summit  of  the  volcano,  in  this  manner 
the  mountain  continued  raging  for  six  or  eight  days  after. 
On  the  18th  of  the  same  month  the  whole  appearance  end- 
ed, and  Vesuvius  remained  perfectly  quiet,  without  any 
visible  smoke  or  flame.  BISHOP  BERKLKY. 

SECTION  in — Description  of  the  preparations   made    faj 

Xerxes,  the  Persian  monarch*  for  invading  Greece. 
In  the  opening  of  spring,  Xtrxts  directed  his  mjirch 
towards  the  Hellespont,  where  his  fleet  lay  in  all  their 
pomp,  expecting  his  arrival.  When  he  came  to  this  place, 
he  was  desirous  of  taking  a  survey  of  all  his  forces,  which 
formed  an  army  that  was  never  equalled  either  before  or 
since.  It  was  composed  of  the  most  powerful  nations  of 
the  East,  and  of  people  scarcely  known  to  posterity,  except 
by  name.  The  remotest  India  contributed  its  supplies, 
while  the  coldest  tracts  of  Scythia  sent  their  assistance. 
Medes,  Persians,  Bactrians,  Lydians,  Assyrians,  Hyrcani- 
ans,  and  many  other  nations  of  various  forms,  complexions, 
languages,  dresses,  and  arms,  united  in  this  grand  expedi- 
tion. The  land  army,  which  he  brought  out  of  Asia,  consis- 
ted of  seventeen  hundred  thousand  foot,  and  fourscore  thou- 
sand horse.  Three  hundred  thousand  more  that  were  ad- 


o8  Sequel  to  the  EngKsh  Reader. 

ded  upon  crossing  the  Hellespont,  made  his  land  forces  all 
ugrther  amount  to  above  two  millions  of  IIK-II.  his  ii. 
when  it  set  out  from  Asia,  consisted  of  twelve  hundred 
md  seven  vesseis,,each  carrying  two  hundred  men.  The 
Europeans  augmented  his  fleet  with  a  hundred  and  twen- 
ty vessels,  each  of  whi  h  carried  two  hundred  men.  Be- 
sidws  these,  thtTf  \\ere  t\\o  thousand  sir.alh  r  vessel*,  iiued 
for  carrying  pr<  r.sic  ns  anci  starts.  '1  he  n  tn  contained  in 
these,  with  thi  former,  amounted  to  six  bundled  thousand; 
mat  the  whole  ai  mv  might  he  said  to  amount  to  two 
millions  and  a  hall;  which,  with  the  v  emu  n,  slates,  and 
liuttlers,  always  accompanying  a  Persian  army,  might  n».:ke 
the  whole  above  five  millions  ot  souls:  a  number,  if  rightly 
conducted,  capable  ot  overturning  the  greatest  monarchy  ; 
but  \\hich,  commanded  by  presumption  anci  ignorance, 
served  only  to  obstruct  and  embarrass  each  other. 

Lorvl  ot  so  many  ami  such  various  subjects,  Xerxes  found 
a  pi.  i-atn.  in  r  vi<  uing  his  fortes  ;  and  was  cltsnousoi  he- 
hunting  a  navnl  engagement,  of  which  he  had  not  hithuto 
b  <  J<  a  spec L-.ioi .  To  ihis  tnd  a  throne  was  erected  tor  him 
U|  «  si  in  eminence  ;  and  in  that  situation  bt  holding  ihe  e«irth 
covert-d  with  his  troops,  and  the  sea  crowded  with  his  ve^- 
s«  (  ,  >.  •  felt  a  seer,  t  joy  (hfiuse  itself  tha;ii(;ii  o*s  tiiime, 
fr^ni  ihe  consciousness  of  his  own  superior  power.  But  .ill 
th,  workings  of  this  monarch's  mind  were  in  the  extreme: 
21  sudden  sadness  soon  took  place  ol  his  pleasure  j  and  dis- 
solvini;  in  a  shower  ot  tears,  he  gave  himselt  up  to  a  re- 
fl.-ctior.,  that  not  one  of  so  many  thou-ands  would  be  alive 
a  hunched  years  aitrr. 

Art  a  ban  us,  the  king's  utv  le,  who  was  much  disposed  to 
moralize  on  occurrences,  took  this  occasion  to  discourse 
with  him  upon  the  shortness  and  miseries  of  human  hie. 
Finding  this  more  distant  subject  attended  to,  he  s,  oke 
closely  to  the  present  occasion  ;  insinuated  his  doubts  ot 
th-,  success  of  the  expedition  ;  urged  the  many  inconveni- 
ences t/ie  ar  m  had  to  sufter,  if  not  from  the  entjny,  at  least 
fium  their  o\vn  numbers.  He  alleged,  that  plagues,  famine, 
an-;  contusion,  were  tiie  necessary  attendants  ot  such  un- 
governable multitudes;  and  thai  empty  tame  was  the  only 
-  of  success.  But  it  was  now  too  late  to  turn  this 
monarch  irom  his  purpose.  Xerxes  intormed  his 


Descriptive  Pieces,  5$ 

monitor,  that  great  actions  were  always  attended  with  pro* 
portion-able  danger :  and  that  if  his  predecessors  had  ob- 
served such  scrupulous  and  timorous  rules  of  conduct,  the 
Persian  empire  would  never  have  attained  to  its  present 
height  of  glory. 

Xerxes,  in  rhe  mean  time,  had  given  orders  to  build  a 
bridge  of  boats  across  the  Hellespont,  for  transporting  his 
army  into  Europe.  This  narrow  strait,  which  now  goes  by 
the  name  of  the  Dardanels,  is  nearly  an  English  mile  over. 
But  soon  after  the  completion  of  this  work,  a  violent  storm 
arising,  the  whole  \v*s  hrokt.n  and  destroyed,  and  the  la- 
bour was  to  be  undertaken  anew.  The  fury  of  Xerxes  upon 
this  disappointment  was  attended  with  equal  extravagance 
and  cruelty.  His  vengeance  knew  no  bounds.  The  work- 
men who  had  undertaken  the  task,  had  their  heads  struck 
off  by  his  order ;  and  that  the  sea  itself  might  also  know  its 
duty,  he  ordered  it  to  be  lashed  as  a  delinquent,  and  a  pair 
of  fetters  to  be  thrown  into  it,  to  curb  its  future  irregulari- 
ties. Thus  having  given  vein  to  his  absurd  resentment,  two 
bridges  were  ordered  to  be  built  in  the  place  of  tht  former, 
one  for  the  army  to  pass  over,  and  the  other  for  the  bag- 
gage and  the  beasts  of  burden  The  workmen,  now  warned 
by  the  fate  of  their  predecessors,  undertook  to  give  their  la- 
bours greater  stability.  They  placed  three  hundred  and  six- 
ty vessels  across  the  strait,  some  of  them  having  three  banks 
of  oars,  and  others  fifty  oars  a  piece.  They  then  cast  large 
anchors  into  the  water  on  both  sides,  in  order  to  fix  these 
vessels  against  the  violence  of  the  winds,  and  the  current. 
After  thiN  they  drove  Urge  piles  into  the  earth,  with  huge 
rings  fastened  to  them,  to  which  were  tied  six  vast  cables 
that  went  over  each  of  the  two  bridges  Over  all  these  they 
laid  trunks  of  trees,  cut  purposely  for  that  use,  and  flat  boats 
again  over  them  fastened  and  joined  together,  so  as  to  serve 
for  a  floor  or  solid  bottom.  When  the  whole  work  was  thus 
completed,  a  day  was  appointed  for  their  passing  over ;  and 
as  soon  as  the  first  rays  of  the  $un  began  to  appear,  sweet 
odours  of  all  kinds  were  abundantly  scattered  aver  the  n»  \y 
work,  and  the  way  was  strewed  with  myrtle.  At  the  same 
ti  ;;e  X-  rx*  s  poured  out  libations  into  the  sea  ;  and  turning 
his  tacv  towards  the  East,  worshipped  that  bright  lumina- 
ry, which  is  the  god  oi  the  Persians.  Then,  throwing  th« 


6O  Seine!  to  the  F.nffKth  Header. 

vessel  which  h-.id  held  ins  li-ution  into  the  sea,  together 
\v  ha  golden  cup  and  Persian  scimitar,  he  went  forward., 
an  i  gav  orders  tor  the  army  to  follow.  This  immense 
was  seven  days  and  seven  nights  in  passing  over;  while 
th->se  who  were  appointed  to  conduct  the  march,  qukken- 
ed  the  troops  by  lashing  them  along  ;  for  the  soldiers  of  the 
East,  at  that  time,  and  to  this  very  day,  are  treated  like 
slaves. 

This  great  army  having  landed  in  Europe,  and  being 
joint  d  there  bv  the  several  nations  that  acknowledged  the 
P<  isian  power,  Xerxes  prepared  for  marching  directly  for- 
ward into  Greece.  After  a  variety  of  disastrous  and  adverse 
events,  suffered  in  the  prosecution  of  his  vain  glorious  de- 
sign, this  haughty  monarch  was  compelled  to  relinquish  it. 
Leaving  his  generals  to  take  care  of  the  army,  he  hastened 
back,  with  a  small  retinue,  to  the  sea-side.  When  he  arriv- 
ed at  the  place,  he  found  the  bridge  broken  down  by  the 
violence  of  the  waves,  in  a  tempest  that  had  lately  happen- 
:»i  there.  He  w  «s,  therefore,  obliged  to  pass  the  strait  in  a 
small  boat ;  which  manner  of  returning,  being  compared 
with  the  ostentatious  method  in  which  he  had  set  out,  ren- 
dired  his  digrace  still  more  poignaut  and  afflicting.  The 
army  which  he  had  ordered  to  follow  him,  having  been  un- 
provided with  necessaries,  suffered  great  hardships  by  the 

\ .  After  having  consumed  all  the  corn  th-  y  could  find, 
they  were  obliged  to  live  upon  herbs,  and  even  upon  the 
bark  and  kaves  of  trees.  thus  harassed  aid  fatigued,  a 

silence  began  to  complete  their  misery ;  and,  after  a  fa- 
tiguing journey  of  iorty-hve  davs,  in  which  they  were  pur- 
aued  rather  by  vultures  ..nd  b  asis  ol  urey  than  by  men, 
th  v  came  to  thr  Hellespont,  where  they  had  crossed  over; 
'lurched  from  th  n  e  to  Saidis.  Such  was  the  end  of 
X  r  i>*  •  xpedition  into  Greece  :  a  measure  begun  in  pride, 
^Ui  ;  terminated  in  miamy.  GOLDSMITH. 

SECTION   iv. — Character  of  Martin  Luther; 
As  Luther  \vas  ra  sed  up  by  Providence  to  be  the  author 
<lf  <»n«   oi  ihe  greatest  and  most  interesting  revolutions  re- 
corded in  history,  thuiv  is  not  perhaps  any  person,  whose 
character   has  r  en  drawn  with  such  opposite  colouts.      in 
•;jr»v,  «*tr   -I-  v.  iih   horror  and    inflan    d 
%-fciih  ra^e,  when  they  saw  with  what  a  daring  hand  he  over- 


Descriptive  Pieces.  61 

turned  every  thing  which  they  held  to  he  sacred,  or  valued 
as  beneficial,  i  uputed  to  him  not  only  all  the  defects  and 
vices  of  a  man,  but  the  qualities  of  a  demon.  The  other, 
warmed  with  admiration  and  gratitude,  which  they  thought 
he  merited,  as  the  restorer  of  light  and  liberty  to  the  Chris- 
tian church,  ascribed  to  him  perfections  above  the  condi- 
tion of  humanity  ;  and  viewed  all  his  actions  with  a  vene- 
ration bordering  on  that,  which  should  be  paid  to  those  only 
who  are  guided  by  the  immediate  inspiration  of  Heaven. 
It  is  his  own  conduct,  not  the  undistinguishing  censure, 
nor  the  exaggerated  praise  of  his  contemporaries,  which 
ought  to  regulate  the  opinions  of  the  present  age  concern- 
ing him.  Zeal  for  what  he  regarded  as  tnuh,  undaunted 
intrepidity  to  maintain  it,  abilities  both  natural  and  acquir-  . 
ed  to  defend  it,  and  unwearied  industry  to  propagate  it,  are 
virtues  which  shine  so  conspicuously  in  every  part  of  his 
behaviour,  that  even  his  enemies  must  allow  him  to  have 
possessed  them  in  an  eminent  degree.  To  these  \nay  be 
added,  with  equ;J  justice,  such  purity,  and  even  austerity 
of  manners,  as  became  one  who  assumed  the  character  of  a 
reformer;  such  sanctity  of  life  as  suited  the  doctrine  which 
he  delivered  ;  and  disinterestedness  so  perfect,  as  affords 
no  slight  presumption  of  his  sincerity.  Superior  to  ad  sel- 
fish considerations,  a  strang*  r  to  the  elegances  of  life,  and 
despising  its  pleasures,  he  left  th<-  honours  and  emoluments 
of  the  church  to  his  disciples  ;  remaining  satisfied  himself 
in  his  original  state  of  professor  in  the  university,  and  pas- 
tor to  the  town  of  Wittembtrg,  with  the  moderate  appoint- 
ments annexed  to  these  offices. 

His  extraordinary  qualities  were  alloyed  with  no  incon- 
siderable mixture  of  human  frailty,  and  human  passions. 
These,  however,  were  of  such  a  nature,  that  they  cannot 
be  unpuud  to  malevolence  or  corruption  of  heart,  but  seem 
to  have  lukcn  their  rist  irom  the  same  source  with  many  of 
hi->  virtues.  His  mind,  forcible  and  vehement  in  11  its  ope- 
rations, roused  by  gnat  objests,  or  agitated  by  violent  pas- 
sions, «>rokc  out,  on  many  occasions,  with  an  impetuosity 
which  astonishes  men  of  fecbhr  spirits,  or  such  as  are  placed 
in  a  more  tranquil  situation.  By  carrying  some  praisewor- 
thy dispositions  to  excess,  he  bordered  sometimes  on  what 
was  culpable,  anci  was  olu  n  b«.  tr  tyed  into  actions  which  t  x- 
posed  him  to  censure.  His  coniuKnce  luat  his  own  opi- 


62  Srcfwl  to  the  English  Reader. 

nions  were  well  founded,  approached  to  arrogance;  bis  cou- 
rage in  asserting  them,  to  rashness  ;  his  firmness  in  adher- 
ing to  them,  to  obstinacy;  and  his  zeal  in  confuting  his  ad* 
vt-rsaries,  to  rage  and  scurrility.  Accustomed  himself  to 
consider  every  thing  a.s  subordinate  to  truth,  he  expected 
the  same  deference  for  it  from  other  men  ;  and,  without 
making  any  allowances  for  their  timidity  or  prejudices,  he 
poured  forth,  against  those  who  disappointed  him  in  this 
particular,  a  torrent  of  invective  mingled  with  contempt. 
Regardless  of  any  distinction  of  rank  or  character,  when  his 
doctrines  were  attacked,  he  chastised  all  his  adversaries  in- 
discriminate -ly,  with  the  same  rough  hand  :  neither  the  roval 
dignity  of  Henry  VIII.  nor  the  eminent  learning  and  abi- 
lity of  Erasmus,  screened  them  from  the,  abuse  with  which 
he  treated  Tetzel  or  Kci  ius.  liut  these  indecences  of  which 
Luther  was  gmltv,  must  not  be  imputed  wholly  to  the  vio- 
lence of  his  temper.  They  ought  to  be  charged  in  part  on 
the  mnimi  rs  of  th<  age.  Among  a  rude  people,  unacquaint- 
ed with  those  maxims,  which,  bv  putting  continual  restraint 
on  the  passions  of  individuals,  have  polished  society,  and 
rendered  it  agreeable,  disputes  of  every  kind  were  manag- 
ed with  heat  ;  and  sfor.g  emotions  were  uttered  in  their  na- 
tural language,  without  reserve  or  delicacy.  At  the  same 
time  the  works  of  Lamed  men  were  all  composed  in  Latin; 
and  they  were  not  onl\  auth  nz<  d,  b\  the  example  of  t  mi- 
ll* in  writers  in  that  language,  to  use  thnr  antagonists  with 
the  most  illiberal  scurrility  ;  but,  in  a  dead  tongue,  inde- 
cencies of  vtry  kind  appear  less  shocking  than  in  a  living 
language,  whose  idioms  and  phrases  seem  gross,  because 
th  y  are  Familiar. 

In  passing  judgment  upon  the  characters  of  men,  we 
ought  to  try  them  by  tlv  principle  s  and  maxims  of  their 
own  age,  not  by  those  of  another.  For  although  virtue  and 
vice  are  at  all  times  the  same,  manners  and  customs  vary 
continually.  Some  parts  of  Lutht  r's  behaviour,  which  to 
us  appear  most  culpable-,  gave  no  disgust  to  his  contempo- 
raries. It  was  even  by  some  ot  those  qualities  which  we 
are  now  apt  to  blame,  that  he  was  fitted  for  accomplishing 
thr  great  work  which  he  undertook.  To  rouse  mankind, 
vhen  sunk  in  ignorance  or  supestition,  and  to  encounter 
the  r  tge  ot  bigotry  armed  with  power,  required  the  utmost 
vehemence  oi  zc*i,and  a  temper  daring  to  excess,  A  gen- 


Descriptive  Pieces.  63 

tie  call  would  neither  have  reached,  nor  have  excited  those 
to  whom  it  was  addressed.  A  spirit  more.  amiaM--,  •  ut  less 
vigorous  than  Luther's,  would  have  shrunk  from  the  dan- 
gi-rs  which  be  braved  and  surmounted.  Towards  'be  close 
of  Luther's  life,  i hough  without  a  perceptible  clecl-nsion  of 
his  Z'-al  or  abilitu  s,  the  infirmities  of  his  temper  increased 
upon  him,  so  that  he  daily  grew  more  peevish,  more  »r,ts- 
ciM  ,  and  more  impatient  of  contradiction.  Having  l'v-d 
to  be  witness  of  his  own  amazing  success;  to  see  a  gr<  at 
pm  of  Europe  embrace  his  doctrines ;  and  to  ^h^ke  the 
foundation  of  the  Papal  throne,  before  which  the  migh'iest 
naon  trchs  bad  trembled,  he  discovered,  on  some  occasions, 
symptoms  of  vanity  and  self-applause.  He  must  have  been 
indeed  more  than  man,  if,  upon  contemplating  all  that  he 
acUiallv  accomplished,  b-  h-.ul  never  felt  any  sentiment  of 
this  kind  rising  in  his  breast. 

Some  time  before  his  •!  -tih  he  felt  his  strength  uVrlin- 
inoN  his  constitution  being  worn  out  by  a  prodigious  rmil- 
tinlicity  of  business,  added  to  the  labour  of  discharging  his 
ministerial  function  with  unremitting  diligence,  to  the  *a- 
tipfue  of  constant  s*iUly,  besides  the  composition  of  works  as 
voluminous  as  if  he  had  enjoved  uninterrupted  leisure  and 
retirement.  His  natural  intrepidity  did  not  forsake  him  at 
the  approach  of  dea'h.  His  last  conversation  with  his  friends 
was  concerning  the  happiness  n-s'-rved  for  ;ood  men  in  a 
future  world  ;  of  which  he  spok  with  the  fervour  and  de- 
light natural  to  one,  who  expected  and  wished  to  cuter  sooa 
upon  the  enjoyment  of  it.  .  ROBERTSON. 

SECTION  v. — The  $ood  and  the  bad  man  compared  in  the 
season  of  adversity. 

RELIGION  prepares  the  mind  for  encountering,  with  for- 
titude, the  most  severe  shocks  of  adversity  ;  whereas  vice, 
by  its  natural  influence  on  the  temper,  tends  to  produce  de- 
jection under  the  slightest  trials.  While  worldly  men  en- 
large their  possessions,  and  extend  their  connexions,  they 
imagine  that  thty  are  strengthening  themselves  against  all 
the  possible  vicissitudes  of  life.  They  say  in  their  hearts, 
a  My  mountain  stands  strong,  and  I  shall  never  be  moved." 
But  so  fatal  is  their  delusion,  that,  instead  of  strengthening, 
they  are  weakening  that  which  only  can  support  the:  4  whem 


64  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

those  vicissitude  s  come.  It  is  their  mind  which  must  theo 
support  them;  and  thrir  mind,  by  their  scnsn-d  attach- 
ments, is  corrupted  and  enfeebled.  Adclicu-d  with  intem- 
perate fondness  to  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  the\  ricur 
two  meat  aM  i  tv  tu  .  i-vils  :  tn  v  both  exclude  thems.  l\  r9 
from  every  resource  except  the  world  ;  and  they  increase 
tfu  ir  sensibility  to  every  blow  which  comes  upon  them 
f !•••.:•  t.'.ai  quarter. 

The\  have  n<  ither  principles  nor  temper  which  can  stand 
the  assault  of  trouble.  They  have  no  principles  which  L-ad 
thMii  to  look  beyond  the  ordinary  rotation  of  events  ;  and 
tru  retort-,  when  misfortunes  involv<  them,  the  prospect 
irni^t  be  comfortless  on  every  side  Their  crimes  have  dis- 
qualified tin  m  in>m  looking  up  to  the  assistance  of  any 
h, -her  power  than  their  own  abilit\ ,  or  for  reiving  on  any 
better  guide  than  tht  ir  own  wisdom.  And  us  from  princi- 
ple they  can  derive  no  support,  so  in  a  temper  corrupted 
by  prosperity  they  find  no  relief.  They  have  lost  that  mo- 
deration of  mind  which  enables  a  wise  man  to  accommodate 
himsrlf  to  his  situation.  Long  fed  with  false  hopes,  they 
are  exasperated  and  stung  by  every  dissappointment.  Lux- 
urious an  !  effeminate,  they  can  bear  no  uneasiness.  Proud 
and  presumptuous,  they  can  brook  no  opposition.  By  nou- 
rishing dispositions  which  so  little  suit  this  uncertain  state, 
th»  y  have  infused  a  double  portion  of  bitterness  into  the 
cup  of  wo  ;  they  have  sharpened  the  ediie  of  that  sworr] 
which  is  lilted  up  to  smite  them.  Strangers  to  all  the  tem- 
perate satisfactions  of  a  good  and  pure  mind  ,  strangers  to 
every  pleasure  except  what  was  seasoned  by  vice  or  vanity  > 
their  adversity  is  to  the  last  degree  disconsolate.  Health 
and  opulence  were  the  two  pillars  on  which  they  ri-strd. 
Snake  euuer  of  them  ;  and  tneir  whole  edifice  o.  hope  and 
comfort  falls.  Prostrate  and  forlorn,  they  are  left  on  the 
ground  ;  obliged  to  join  with  the  man  of  Ephraim,  in  his 
abject  lamentation,  "  They  have  taken  away  my  gods, 
\vhich  I  have  made,  and  what  have  I  more?" — Such  are 
th<j  causes  to  which  we  must  ascribe  the  broken  spirits,  the 
peevish  umper,  and  impatient  passions,  that  so  often  at- 
tend the  decliivog  age,  or  falling  fortunes  of  vicious  men. 

Bui  how  different  is  the  condition  of  a  truly  good  man, 
m  those  tr)ing  situations  of  life  1     Religion  had  gradually 


Descriptive  Pieces.  $3 

prepared  his  mind  for  all  the.  events  of  this  inconstant  st  -te. 
It  bad  instructed  him  in  th-  nature  oi  true  hap;>Mi-  ss.  (t 
had  early  weaned  him  from  an  undue  love  of  the  world, 
by  discovering  to  him  its  vanity,  and  by  setting  hi<;;ier 
prospects  in  his  view.  Afflictions  do  not  attack  him  by  sur- 
prise, and  therefore  do  not  overwhelm  him  He  was  e^  >  p- 
ped  for  the  storm,  as  well  as  the  c  d  >  ,  in  this  dubious  navi- 
gation  of  life.  Under  these  conditions  he  kn  w  himself  ,o 
be  brought  hither  ;  that  he  was  not  always  to  reiain  t.u  u- 
yy\  ment  of  what  he  loved:  and  therefore  he  is  not  v  r- 
comr  by  dissappointmcnt,  wh  n  that  which  is  mortal,  dies; 
when  that  which  is  mutable,  bi  gins  to  change  ,  and  wh>  n 
that  which  he  knew  to  be  transient,  passes  away. 

All  the  principle-  which  religion  teaches,  and  all  the  ha- 
bits which  it  forms,  are  favourable  to  strength  of  mind.  It 
will  be  found,  that  whatever  purifies,  fortifies  also  the  heart. 
In  the  course  of  living  u  righteosly,  soberly,  and  pio  i^i  ,"* 
a  good  man  acquires  a  steady  and  well-governed  spirit. 
Trained,  by  divine  grace,  to  enjoy  with  moderation  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  world,  neither  lifted  up  by  success,  nor  en- 
ervated with  sensuality,  he  meets  the  changes  in  his  iot 
without  unmanly  dejection.  He  is  inured  to  temperance 
and  restraint.  He  has  learned  firmness  and  self-command. 
He  is  accustomed  to  look  up  to  that  Supreme  Provid  nee, 
which  disposes  of  human  affairs,  not  with  reverence  only, 
but  v\  ith  trust  and  hope. 

The  time  of  prosperity  was  to  him  not  merely  a  season 
of  barren  joy,  but  productive  of  much  useful  improvement. 
He  had  tulvitat<-d  his  mind.  He  had  stored  it  with  usctal 
knowledge,  with  good  principles,  and  virtuous  dispositions. 
These  resources  rein  tin  entire,  when  the  days  of  trouble 
come.  They  remain  with  him  in  sickness,  as  in  health  ;  in 
poverty,  as  in  the  midst  of  riches  ;  in  his  dark  and  solitary 
hours,  no  less  than  when  surrounded  with  friends  and  gay 
society.  From  the  glare  of  prosperity,  he  can;  without  de- 
jection, withdraw  into  the  shade.  Excluded  fro  on  several 
advantages  of  the  w  <rld,  he  may  be  obliged  to  retreat  into 
a  narrower  circle;  but  within  that  circle  he  will  find  many 
coinfcrts  left.  His  chief  pleasures  were  always  of  the  ca!  >^ 
inn  .cent,  and  temperate  kind;  and  over  thes<%  the  ctv.-^.s 
of  the  world  would  hive  the  least  power.  *!:•-•  r,m  \  \>  a 
kingdom  to  him ;  and  he  can  still  enjoy  it.  The  world  aid 


66  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

not  h  tow  upon  him  all  his  enjoyments  ;  and  therefore  it 
is  nor  in  the  power  of  the  world,  by  its  most  cruel  attacks, 
to  carry  them  all  away.  BLAIR. 


CHAPTER  V.— PATHETIC  PIECES. 

SFCI  ION    i. — Rome  saved  by  Female  Virtue. 
CORIOLANUS  was  a  distinguished  Roman  Senator  and 
Gei-.'  r  -.1,  who  nad  rendered  eminent  services  to  the  Repub- 
lic.   But  these  services  were  no  security  against  envy,  and 
popular  preludtces.      He  was  at  length  treated  with  great 
seventy  and  ingratitude,  by  the  senate  and  people  of  Rome; 
anci  obliged  to  leave  his  country  to  preserve  his  life.   Of  a 
haughty  and  indignant  spirit,  he  resolved  to  avenge   him- 
self ;  and,  with  this  view,  applied  to  the  Volscians,  the  t  ne- 
mies  of  Rome,  and  tendered  them  his  services  against  his 
native  country.  The  offer  was  cordially  embraced,  and  Co- 
riolanus  was  made  general  of  the  Volscian  army.   He  reco- 
vered from  the  Romans  all  the  towns  they  had  taken  from 
the  Volsci ;  carried  by  assault  several  cities  in  Latium  ;  and 
ltd  his  troops  within  five  miles  of  the  city  of  Rome.   Afrer 
several  unsuccessful  embassies  from  the  senate,  all  hope  of 
pacifying  the  injured  exile  appeared  to  bi   extinguished; 
and  the  sole  business  at  Rome  was  to  prepare,  with  the  ut- 
most diligence,  for  sustaining  a  siege.  The  young  and  able 
bodied  men  had  instantly  the  guard  of  the  gates  and  trenches 
assigned  to  them  ;  while  those  of  the  veterans,  who,  though 
exempt  by  their  age  from  bearing  arms,  were  yet  capable 
of  service,  undertook  the  defence  of  the  ramparts.     The 
women,  in  the  mean  while,  terrified  by  these  movements, 
and  the  impending  danger,  into  a  neglect  of  their  wonted 
decorum,  ran  tumultuously  from  their  houses  to  the  tem- 
plt-s.     Every  sanctuary,  and  especially  the  tenople  ot  Jupi- 
ter Capitolinus,  resounded  with  the  waitings  and  loud  sup- 
plications of  women,  prostrate  before  th.-  statues  of  their 
divinities.     In  this  general  consternation  and  distress,  Va- 
leri  t,  (sister  of  the  famous  Valerius  Poplicola,)  as  if  mov- 
ed by  a  divine  impulse,  suddenly  took  her  stand  upon  the 
lop  of  the  steps  of  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  assembled  the 
womm  about  h^r,  and  hiving  first  exhorted  them  not  to 
be  tt  rrified  by  the  greatness  of  the  present  danger,  confi- 
dently declared,  "  That  there  WdS  yet  hope  for  the  rcpub- 


Pathetic  Pieces*  i>t- 

lie  ;  th*t  its  preservation  depended  upon  them,  and  npou 
thi-ir  performance  of  the  duty  th^y  owed  theii  country.1'  — 
41  Alas  I"  cried  one  of  the  company,  u  what  resource  v .act 
th  re  be  in  the  weakness  of  wretched  women,  when  <-ur 
bravest  men,  our  ablest  warriors  themselves  despair  ?"  "  It 
is  not  by  the  sword,  nor  by  strength  of  arm,"  replied  Vale- 
ria, "  that  we  are  to  prevail ;  these  belong  not  to  our  f-tx. 
Soft  moving  words  must  be  our  weapons  and  our  ioice, 
Let  us  all,  in  our  mourning  attire,  and  accompanied  by  our 
children,  go  and  entreat  Veturia,  the  mother  of  Coriolanus^ 
to  intercede  with  her  son  for  our  common  country.  Vv  m- 
tia's  prayers  will  bend  his  soul  to  pity.  Haughty  and  im- 
placable as  he  has  hitherto  appeared,  he  has  not  a  heart  s© 
cruel  and  obdurate,  as  not  to  relent,  when  he  shall  see  his 
mother,  his  revered,  his  beloved  mother,  a  weeping  sup- 
pliant at  his  feet." 

This  motion  being  universally  applauded,  the  whole  traim 
of  women  took  their  way  to  Veturia's  house.  Her  son's 
wife,  Volumnia,  who  was  sitting  with  her  when  they  ar- 
rived, an  i  was  greatly  surprised  at  their  coming,  hastily 
asked  them  the  meaning  of  so  extraordinary  an  appearance. 
"  What  is  it,'1  said  she,  u  what  can  be  the  motive  th\.t  has 
brought  so  numerous  a  company  of  visiters  to  this  house 
of  sorrow." 

Valeria  then  addressed  herself  to  the  mother  :  a  It  is  te 
you,  Veturia,  that  these  women  have  recourse  in  the  ex- 
treme peril,  with  which  they  and  their  children  are  threat- 
ened. They  entreat,  implore,  conjure  you,  to  compassion- 
ate their  distress,  and  the  distress  of  our  common  country. 
Suffer  not  Rome  to  become  a  prey  to  the  Volsci,  and  our 
enemies  to  triumph  over  our  liberty.  Go  to  the  camp  of 
Coriolamis  :  take  with  you  Volumnia  and  her  two  sons  ; 
let  that  excellent  wife  join  her  intercession  to  \oursv  Per- 
mit these  women  with  their  children  to  accompany  you  j 
they  will  all  cast  themselves  at  his  feet.  O  Vetui  ia,  conjure 
him  to  grant  peacr  to  his  fellow-citizens.  Cease^not  to  r-eg 
till  you  have  obtained.  So  good  a  man  can  never  withstand 
your  tears:  our  only  hope  is  in  yon.  Come  then,  Vetuna  : 
the  danger  presses  ;  you  have  no  time  for  d.-liberalion  ;  tfye 
enterprise  is  worthy  of  your  virtue  ;  Heaven  will  crov>  n  it 
with  success  ;  Komc  shall  once  more  owe  its  preserrawtJi 

,~  6 


tf  tf  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

to  our  sex.  You  wiil  jusiiy  acquire  to  yourself  an  immor- 
tal lam  ,  and  have  the  pleasure  to  make  every  one  of  us  a 
sharer  in  your  glorv." 

Vcturia,  after  a  short  silence,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  an- 
swered :  "  Weak  indeed  is  the  foundation  of  your  hope, 
Vakna,  when  you  place  it  in  the  aid  of  two  miserable  \\  o- 
men.  We  aiv  not  wanting  in  affection  to  our  country,  nor 
need  we  any  remonstrance  IT  entreaties  to  ixciu-  our  /xal 
fo»  its  preservation.  It  is  the  power  only  of  being  s<.  rvict  - 
abl.  that  tails  us.  Ever  since  that  unfortunate  hour,  when 
the  p.ople  in  thtir  madness  so  unjustly  banished  Conola- 
nu-,  his  heart  has  been  no  less  estranged  from  his  family 
than  from  his  <  untrv.  You  will  be  convinced  of  this  s>ad 
truth  bv  his  own  words  to  us  at  parting.  When  he  return- 
ed home  from  the  assembly,  whi  re  he  had  been  condemn- 
ed, he  found  us  in  th<  depth  of  affliction;  bewailing  the- mi- 
serus  that  wen  sine  to  follow  our  being  dtpiiwd  ol  so 
dear  a  son,  and  so  excellent  a  husband.  \Ve  had  his  chil- 
di\  n  upon  our  knees.  He  kept  himself  at  a  distance  from 
us  ;  and,  when  he  had  a  while  stood  silent,  motionless  as  a 
r  ck  his  e\ts  fixed,  and  without  shedding  a  tear  ;  fc  'Tis 
done,'  he  said — *  ()  mother,  and  thou  V  olumnia,  the  best 
of  wivts,  to  you  Marcius  is  no  more.  1  am  banished  hence 
for  my  affection  to  my  countix  and  the  services  I  have 
done  .«.  I  go  this  instant;  and  I  leave  for  ever  a  city, 
whe>t  ail  good  men  are  i  roscribed.  Support  this  blow  of 
.n  with  the  magnanimity  that  becomes  uonun  of  your 
h  u  rank  and  virtue.  I  comimnd  m\  children  to  your  care. 
E  iiicatr-  them  in  a  manner  worthy  of  you,  and  of  the  race 
from  which  they  come.  Heav.  n  grant,  th«  y  may  be  n.ore 
fortunate  than  their  father,  and  never  fall  short  of  him  in 
virttu  ;  and  may  you  in  them  find  your  consolation  ! — 
Far.-  well.' 

"  \\V  started  up  at  the  sound  of  this  word,  and  with  loud 
crii-s  <-f  lamentation  ran  to  him  to  receive  his  last  embr-.ces. 
I  led  his  eider  son  by  the  hand,  Volumnia  had  the  younger 
in  her  arms,  H^  turned  his  eyes  from  us,  and  putting  us 
back  with  his  hand,  fc  Mo  her,'  said  he,  fc  from  this  moment 
you  h.-.v  no  son:  ou  country  has  taken  from  you  M  v 
ot  \our  'ild  age. — Nor  to  you,  Volumni-i,  will  Via-  ius  be 
henceforth  a  husband  5  mayst  thou  be  happy  with  anotncr. 


Pathetic  Pieces.  69 

more   fortunate  ! — My  clear  children  you  have  lost  your 

father." 

1  Ht  said  no  more,  but  instantly  broke  away  from  us. 
He  departed  from  ROUK  without  settling  his  domestic  af- 
fairs, or  leaving  any  orders  about  them  ;  without  money, 
without  strv  ints,  and  even  without  letting  us  know  u-  w  t 
part  of  the  world  he  would  direct  his  steps.  It  is  now  the 
fourth  year  since  he  went  away  ;  and  he  has  never  inquir- 
ed after  his  familv,  nor,  by  letter  or  messenger,  given  us 
the  least  account  of  himself:  so  that  it  seems  as  it  his  mo- 
tru  r  and  his  wife  were  the  chief  objects  of  that  general  ha- 
tred which  he  shows  to  his  country. 

*fc  What  success  then  can  you  expect  from  our  entreaties 
to  a  man  so  implacable  ?  Can  two  women  bend  that  stub- 
born heart,  which  even  all  the  ministers  of  religion  were 
not  able  to  sol'ten  ?  And  indeed  what  shall  I  say  to  !«  m  ? 
What  can  I  reasonably  desire  of  him?  that  he  wo-ilci  par- 
don ungrateful  citizens,  who  have  treated  him  as  the  v»jcst 
criminal?  that  he  would  take  compassion  upon  a  furious, 
unjust  populace,  which  had  no  regard  for  his  innocence? 
And  that  he  would  betray  a  nation,  which  has  not  only 
opened  him  an  asylum,  but  has  even  preferred  him  to  her 
mist  illustrious  citizens  in  the  command  of  her  armies? 
With  what  face  can  I  ask  him  to  abandon  such  generous 
protectors,  and  deliver  himself  again  into  the  hands  ot  his 
most  bitter  enemies  ?  Can  a  Roman  mother,  and  a  Roman 
wife,  with  decency,  exact,  from  a  son  and  a  husband,  com- 
pliances which  must  dishonour  him  before  both  go^s  aiid. 
men  ?  Mournful  circumstance,  in  which  \ve  have  not  pow- 
er to  hate  the  most  formidable  enemy  of  our  country  ? 
Leave  us  therefore  to  our  unhappy  destiny  ;  and  do  not  de- 
sire us  to  make  it  more  unhappy  by  an  action  that  may  cast 
a  blemish  upon  our  virtue." 

The  women  made  no  answer  but  by  their  tears  and  en- 
treaties. Some  embraced  her  kn-es  ;  others  beseecru  d  Vo- 
lumnia  to  join  her  prayers  to  theirs  ;  all  conjured  Veturia 
not  to  refuse  her  country  this  last  assistance.  Overcome  at 
length  by  their  urgent  solicitations,  she  promised  to  do  as 
thev  desired. 

The  very  next  clav  all  the  most  illustrious  of  the  Roman 
n  repaired  to  Veturia's  house*    There  they  presently 


to  the  English  Reacfar. 

mounted  a  numb-  r  of  clvtnois,  ,  mdi  tin  consuls  had 

d     cd  to  be  ni  di    rtad\  ioi   liu-m,  .«n;:,  without  any  £f.^rd, 

the  way  to  the  enemy's  camp. 

Coriolauis,  perceiving  Iron,  aliir  that  long  train  of  c  ha- 
s,  sent  out  some  hoi -t  mm  to  learn  the  design  of  it. 
T.iey  quickly  brought  him  word,  that  it  was  hi.-,  'moduT, 
h:^  wile,  -and  a  ^reat  number  of  other  women,  and  their 
children,  con  in.  to  iK  c-imp.  iK:  doubtless  conjectured 
what  views  the  Romans  had  in  ^'>  crxtraordiuar.  a  cle|  uta- 
ii'»n  ;  th.tt  this  was  the  last  expedient  oi"  the  -  .ndt 

iij  his  own  mind,  he  d<  unvimed  not  to  let  himself  he  moy- 
c  Hut  he  reckoned  iijion  a  savage  intitxihilit)  thai  \\  :-.s 

jn  n  his  nature:  ior,  going  out  with  a  few  attendants  to 
/e>  ive  the  wouun,  he  no  sooner  In  held  Vtturia  attired  in 
mourning,  her  e\es  bathed  in  tears,  am!  with  a  counttn, 

1  motion  that  spoke  her  sinking  under  a  load  oi  sorrow, 
than  he  ran  hastily  to  her  ;  and  not  only  calling  her,  mother, 
but  adding  to  that  word  the  most  tenck  r  epithets,  ciitbiaied 
her,  wept  over  her,  and  held  her  in  his  arms  to  prevent  her 
fillins;.  The  like  tenderness  he  presently  alter  expressed  to 
h's  wife,  highly  com-  her  discretion  in  having  cou- 

ntry remained  with  his  mother,  since  his  departure  from 
Rome.  And  then,  with  the  warmest  paternal  affection,  he 
caressed  his  children. 

When  some  time  had  been  allowed  to  those  silent  tears 
of  joy,  which  often  flow  plenteou-ly  at  the  sudden  and  un- 
expected meeting  of  persons  dear  to  each  other,  Veturia 
entered  upon  the  business  she  had  undertake  n.  After  many 
forcible  appeals  to  his  understanding  and  patriotism,  she 
exclaimed:  u  What  frenzy,  what  madness  of  anger  trans- 
ports my  son  !  Heaven  is  appeased  by  supplications,  vows, 
and  sacrifices:  shall  mortals  be  implacable?  Will  Marcius 
Sv  t  no  bounds  to  his  resentment  ?  But  allowing  that  thy 
enmity  to  thy  country  is  too  violent  to  let  thee  listen  to  her 
p  tition  tor  peace  ;  yet  be  not  deaf,  my  son,  be  not  inexor- 
able to  the  prayers  and  tears  of  thy  mother.  Thou  dread- 
est  the  very  appearance  of  ingratitude  towards  the  Volsci  ; 
and  shall  thy  mother  have  reason  to  accuse  thee  of  being 
ungrateful  ?.  Call  to  mind  the  tender  care  I  took  of  thy  in- 
fancy and  earliest  youth  ;  the  alarms,  the  anxiety,  I  suffer- 
ad  ©n  th)  account,  when,  entered  into  the  state  of  manhood. 


Pathetic  Pieces.  71 

thy  life  was  almost  daily  exposed  in  foreign  wars  ;  the  ap- 
prehensions,  the  tc  rrors,  I  underwent  when  1  saw  thee  so 
\\  ,rmly  ngaged  in  our  domestic  quarrels,  and,  with  heroic 
courage,  opposing  the  unjust  pretensions  of  the  lurious  ple- 
bians.  My  sad  forbodings  of  the  event  have  been  but  too 
w  11  verified.  Consider  the  wretched  life  I  have  endured, 
if  it  may  be  called  lite,  the  time  that  has  passed  since  1  was 
deprived  of  thee.  O  Marcius,  reiuse  nu  not  the  only  ie- 
quest  I  ever  made  to  thee  ;  I  will  never  importune  thee 
with  any  other.  Cease  thy  immoderate  anger;  be  reconcil- 
ed to  tin  country  ;  this  is  all  I  ask  :  grant  me  but  this  and 
we  shall  both  be  ha,  py.  Freed  from  those  tempestuous  pas- 
sions which  now  agitate  thy  soul,  and  from  all  the  torments 
of  s»Jf-reproach,  thy  days  will  flow  smoothly  on  in  the  sweet 
serenity  of  conscious  virtue  :  and  as  for  me,  if  I  carry  b*ck 
to  Rome  the  hopes  of  an  approaching  peace,  an  assunu.ee 
ot  thv  being  reconciled  to  thy  country,  with  what  transports 
of  joy  shall  I  be  received  I  In  what  honour,  in  what  de- 
lightful repose,  shall  I  pass  the  remainder  ot  m)  life!  what 
immortal  glory  shall  I  have  acquired !" 

Coriolanus  made  no  attempt  'o  interrupt  Veturia  while 
she  was  speaking;  and  when  she  had  ceased,  he  still  conti- 
nued in  deep  silence  Anger,  hatred,  and  desire  of  revt  ngr, 
balanced  in  his  heart  those  softer  passions  which  the  sight 
and  discourse  of  his  mother  had  awakened  in  his  breast. 
Veturia  perceiving  his  irresolution,  and  fearing  rhe  event, 
thus  rent  wed  her  expostulation  :  *fc  Why  dost  thou  not  an- 
swer me,  my  son  ?  Is  there  then  such  greatness  of  mind  in 
giving  all  to  resentment?  Art  thou  ashamed  to  grant  any 
thing  to  a  mother  who  thus  entreats  thee,  thus  humMes  her- 
self to  thet  ?  If  it  be  so,  to  what  purpose  should  I  long  r 
endure  a  wretched  life?"  As  she  uttered  thtse  last  words, 
inierrupted  by  sighs,  she  threw  herself  prostrate  at  his  teet. 
His  wife  and  children  did  the  same  ;  and  all  the  other  wo- 
men,  with  united  voices  of  mournful  accent,  begged  and 
implored  his  pity. 

The  Volscian  officers,  not  able  unmoved  to  behold  this 
sc  ne,  turned  away  their  eyes  ;  but  Coriolanus,  almost  be- 
side himself  to  see   Veturia  at  his  feet,  passionate)'   t 
out:  u  Ah!  mother,  what  art  thou  doing?'     And,  t  nd  rly 
pressing  her  hand,  in  raising  ht  r  up,  h.r         ±t&  ma 
—  "•«  4*  Kouic  is  saved,  but  uu  son  si  lost !>> 


Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

Early  the  next  morning,  Coriolanus  broke  up  his  camp, 
and  peacably  marched  his  army  homewards.  Nobody  had- 
the  boldness  to  contradict  his  orders.  Many  were  exceed- 
ingly dissatisfied  with  his  conduct  :  but  others  excused  it, 
being  more  affected  with  his  filial  respect  'o  his  motht-r, 
than  with  their  own  interests. — HOOKE'S  ROMAN  HISTORY. 

SECTION  ii. — Execution  of  Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury. 

QUEEN  MARY  determined  to  bring  Cranmer,  whom  she 
had  long  detained  in  prison,  to  punishment;  and  in  order 
more  fully  to  satiate  her  vengeance,  she  resolved  to  punish 
him  for  heresy,  rather  than  for  treason.  He  was  cited  by 
the  Pope  to  stand  his  trial  at  Rome  ;  and  though  he  was 
known  to  be  kept  in  close  custody  at  Oxford,  he  was,  upon 
his  not  appearing,  condemned  as  contumacious.  Bonn*  r, 
bishop  of  London,  and  ThirL  by,  bishop  of  Ely,  were  sv  nt 
to  degrade  him  ;  and  the  former  executed  the  melancholy 
ceremony,  with  all  the  joy  and  exultation  which  suited  hia 
Savage  nature.  TV  implacable  spirit  of  the  Queen,  not  sa- 
tisfied with  the  future  misery  ot  Cranmer,  which  she  bc- 
luved  inevitable,  and  with  the  execution  of  that  dreadful 
sentence  to  which  he  was  condemned,  prompted  her  also 
to  seek  the  ruin  of  his  honour,  and  the  infamy  of  his  nam,. 
Persons  were  employed  to  attack  him,  not  in  »he  wa\  of 
disputation,  against  which,  he  was  sufficiently  armed;  but. 
by  flattery,  insinuation  and  address  ;  b\  representing  the 
dignities  to  which  his  character  still  entitled  him,  if  he 
would  merit  them  by  a  recantation  ;  by  giving  him  hopes 
of  long  enjov  ing  those,  powerful  friends,  whom  his  benefi- 
cent disposition  had  attached  to  him,  during  the  course  of. 
h.s  prosperity.  Overcome  by  th-  fond  love  of  life;  tenifc- 
*n  by  the  prospect  of  those  tortures  which  awaited  him  ; 
he  allowed,  in  an  unguarded  hour,  the  sentiments  of  na- 
ture to  prevail  ovi-r  his  resolution,  and  agreed  to  subscribe 
tfch  doctrines  of  the  papal  supremacy,  and  of  the  real  pre- 
&  nee-  The  court,  equally  perfidious  and  cruel,  was  deter- 
mint  d  that  this  recantation  should  avail  him  nothing  ;  a".d. 
SI-.H  ,r<lvrs  that  he  should  be  required  to  acknowledge  s 
trnar^  in  church  bt  fore  rhv  \v*v>lf  •>  .ind  tMai  he 

ohouki  Uiencc  be  immediately  earned  to 


Pathetic  Pieces,  7$ 

Cranmer,  whether  he  had  received  a  secret  intimation  of 
their  design,  or  had  repented  of  his  weakness,  surprised  the 
audience  by  a  contrary  declaration.  He  said,  that  he  was 
>vell  apprised  of  the  obedience  which  he  owed  to  his  sove- 
reign and  the  laws;  but  that  this  duty  extended  no  farther 
than  to  submit  patiently  to  their  commands;  and  to  bear, 
without  resistance,  whatever  hardships  they  should  impose 
upon  him  :  that  a  superior  dut)  ,  the  dutv  which  he  owed  to 
his  Maker,  obliged  him  to  speak  truth  on  all  occasions  ; 
and  not  to  relinquish,  by  a  bust-  deni  1,  the  holy  doctrine 
\v  ich  the  Supreme  Being  had  revealed  to  mankind  :  that 
thh  re  vvas  one  miscarriage  in  hisjlite,  of  which,  above  -ill 
others,  he  severely  repented;  the  insincere  declaration  of 
faith  to  which  he  had  the  weakness  to  consent,  and  which 
the  fear  of  death  alone  had  extorted  from  him  :  that  betook 
this  opportunity  of  atoning  for  his  error,  by  a  sincere  and 
open  recantation;  and  vvas  willing  to  seal,  with  his  blood, 
that  doctrine  which  he  firmly  believed  to  be  communicated 
from  heaven  :  and  that,  as  his  hand  had  erred,  by  betraying 
his  heart,  it  should  first  be  punished,  by  a  severe  but  just 
doom,  and  should  first  pay  the  forfeit  of  its  offences. 

He  was  then  led  to  the  stake,  amidst  the  insults  of  his 
enemies:  and  having  now  sum-rmned  up  all  the  force  of  his 
mind,  he  bore  their  scorn,  as  well  as  the  torture  of  his  pu- 
nishment, with  singular  fortitude.  He  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and,  without  betraying,  either  by  his  countenance  or 
motions,  the  least  sign  of  weakness,  or  even  of  feeling,  he 
held  it  in  the  flames  rill  it  vvas  entirely  consumed.  His 
thoughts  seemed  \vn  •llyoccupid  with  reflections  on  his'for- 
m.-r  fault,  and  he  called  aloud  several  times,  a  This  hr»>  d 
has  offended."  Satisfied' with  that  .tUHKrnent,  he  thin  dis- 
covered a  serenity  in  his  countenance;  and  when  the  fire 
attacked  his  body,  he  seemed  to  be  quite  insensible  of  his 
outward  sufferings,  and  by  the  force  oi  hope  an-i  resolution, 
to  have  collected  his  mind,  altogether  within  itself,  and  to 
repel  the  furv  of  the  flames  — He  vvas  undoubtedly  x  man- 
o'  merit;  possessed  of  learning  and  capacity,  arid  adorm  d 
\virh  candour,  «ine-rk\  an- 1  beneficence,  and  :dl  those  vir- 
tu- s  which,  were  filled  to  render  aim  useful  and  amiabl  IQ 


74  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

SECTION  in — Christianity  furnisher  the  best  consolation 
under  the  evik  of  life. 

IT  is  of  gnat  importance  to  contemplate  the  Christian 
religion  in  th«  light  of  consolation  ,  us  bringing  aid  and  i  c- 
li-  I  to  us  amidst  the  distresses  of  lift-.  Here  our  religion 
lQCome»tabty  triumphs;  and  its  happy  effect^  in  this  re- 
spect, furnish  a  strong  argument  to  every  benevolent  mind, 
for  wishing  ihc.u  io  !)e  Jarthej  diilu-.ed  throughout  the 
world.  For  \\  -tii'.ut  the-  belief  and  hope  afforded  by  Divine 
Revelation,  the  urcumstancis  of  man  ..re  extremely  for- 
lorn. He  find-  hiin^'U  placed  here  as  a  stranger  in  a  vast 
Universe,  where  the  powers  and  operations  oi  nature  are 
very  imperfectly  known;  where  both  the  beginnings  and 
the  issues  ot  thin,  s  are  involved  in  in\  stcrious  darkness; 
where  he  is  unablt  to  discover,  with  am  certainty,  whence 
Iv  sprung,  or  for  what  purpose  he  was  brought  into  this 
st.ite  ol  v.  \istc-m-.  ;  wiu-thi-r  he  is  subjected  to  the  govun- 
Mient  ot  a  mud,  or  a  wrathlul  rultr;  what  construction  tie 
i  t  »  put  on  m.  n\  ol  tlie  dispensations  of  his -provi.it  nee  ; 
and  what  hi*  I  «te  is  to  be  when  hr  d  parts  hence  What  a 
disconsolate  situation,  to  a  serious  inquiring  mind  !  The 
greater  degree  ol  viri  <.  \\  as,  tbi  m</re  us  sensibih- 

t  is  hki-K  to  bt  oppressed  b\  this  burd-n  of  labouring 
tiK-ughi.  Kven  th.ou^h  it  w*  re  in  one's  power  to  banish  ail 
uneasy  tliouglu,  .md  to  fill  up  the  hours  oi  life  with  perpe- 
tu-il  amusi-nu  nt.  life  so  filled  up  uould,  upon  rehVc-uoi*,  ap- 
pear poor  and  trivial.  But  thvst?-are  far  from  being  the 
terms  upon  which  man  is  brought  into  this  .world.-  H  is 
conscious  that  his  being  is  frail  and  feeble  !  he  sees  himself 
beset  with  various  dangers;  and  is  exposed  to  many  a  me- 
Ltncholy  apprehension,  from  the  evils  which  he  may  have 
t<  MI  ounter,  before  h»-  arrives  at  the  clo>*  of  life.  In  tins 
distressed  condition,  to  reve.il  to  him  such  discoveries  of 
th«  ^up»enie  Bx  ing  as  the  Christian  religion  affords,  is  to 
reveal  to  him  a  father  and  a  tricnu  ;  is  to  let  in  a  ray  of  tne 
most  cheering  Hgh«  upon  the  darkness  of  the  human  state. 
He  who  was  before  a  destitute  orphan,  wandering  in  the 
ii-..i  sp. table  descru  has  now  gained  a  shelter  from  the  bit- 
ter and  inclement  blast.  He  now  knows  to  whom  to  pray, 
i  •  to  trust ,  where  to  unbosom  his  sorrows;  and 

from  what  hand  to  look  for  n  lj  J, 

uai,  mat  when  the  heart  bleeds  iroai  some  wound 


Pathetic  Pieces.  ?& 

of  recent  misfortune,  nothing  is  of  equal  efficacy  with  reli- 
(  omfort.    It  is  of  power  to  enlighten  the-  darkest  h»»ur, 
>  assuage  the  severest  wo,  bv  the  belief  ot  Divine  la- 
vour,  and  the  prospect  of  a  blessed  immortality.      In  such 
s,  the    nmd  expatiates  with  jov  ;   and,  when  bereaved 
earthly  friends,  solaces  itseli  with  the  thoughts  ot  one 
nd,  who  will  never  forsake  it.    R<,  fnu,d  reasonings  con- 
cer.-ing  the  nature  ot    the   human  condition,  and   the   im- 
provement whic.i   philosophy  teaches   us  to  make  of    -\    ry 
cv   :u,  may  entertain  che  mind  when  it  is  at  ease  :  may  per- 
haps contribute  to  sooth  ir.  \vh<  n  slightly  touched  with  sor- 
rt!     :    i)iit  when   it  is  toi  n  wnh  <m't  sore  distress,  they  are 
col'!    -md   feeble,  compared  with  a  direct  promise  from    he 
F.jih-r  of  mercies.       This  is   "  a  i    anchor  to  the  soul       >'b 
md  steadiest,."  Tins  has  given  consolation  and  reiuge 
to    n.my  a  virtuous   he  m,    it  a  time  when  the  most  co  y  nt- 
reasonings  would  have  pr  >v   d  utterlv  uiv>vail-ng. 

Upon  the  approach  of  death,  wh--n,  if  a  man  thinks  at 
all,  his  anxiety  about  his  future  interests  must  naturally  in- 
crease, the  power  ot  religious  consolation  is  sens-ibly  felt. 
Then  appears,  in  the  most  striking  light,  the  high  value  of 
the  discoveries  made  by  the  gospel  ;  not  only  life  and  im- 
mortality revealed,  but  a  Mediator  with  God  discovered  ; 
nif-rcy  proclaimed,  through  him,  to  the  frailties  of  the  peni- 
tent and  tnr  humble  j  and  his  presence  promised  to  be  with 
them  when  they  are  pa-sing  through  a  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,"  in-  order  to  bring  them  sale  into  unsren 
habitations  of  rest  a%l  joy.  Here  is  ground  for  their  leav- 
ing the  world  with,  comfort  and  prace.  But  in  this  severe 
and  trying  period,  this  labouring  hour  ot  nature,  how  shall 
the  unhappy  man  support  himself,  who  knows  n«»t,  or  be- 
lieves not,  the  discoveries  of  religion  ?  Secretly  conscious 
to  himself  that  he  has  not  acted  his  part  as  he  ought  to 
have  done,  the  sins  of  his  past  hie  arise  before  him  in  sad 
remembrance.  He  wishes  to  exist  after  death,  and  vet 
dreads  that  existence.  The  Governor  of  the  world  is  un- 
known, lie  cannot  tell  whether  every  endeavour  to  obtain, 
his  mercy  may  not  be  in  vain.  All  is  awful  obscurity  around 
him  ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  endl  ss  doubts  and  perplexities, 
the  trembling,  reluctant  soul  is  forced  away  from  the  bodv. 
As  the  misfortunes  gf  life  must,  to  such  a  man,  have  been. 


76  Sequel  to  the  English  Rea 

most  oppressive,  so  its  end  is  biuer.  il,^  sun  sets  in  a 
da,k  1  -ud  ;  and  the  night  ot  death  closes  over  his  head, 
full  ot  misery  hl 

sj.c  i  ION  iv  — Benefits  to  be  derived Jrom  scents  oj  a 

S  -me  periods  f  s  dmss  huvv,  in  our  present  situ.non, 
a  L  ind  n  lural  place  ;  anil  the*  arc  requisite  to  the  irue 
en)  •,  in  DC  ot  pleasure  :  i  ill  at  present  decline  con- 

si  1   ring  the   subject   in  t  ;  and   conlnu-  imsclt    to 

p"'nt  'Hit  the  direct  tfiYcts  of  a^Mopi-r  attention  to  the  dis- 
tr.  ss«  s  of  life,  upon  our  moral  and  religious  character. 

In  the  first  place,  the  house  of  mourning  is  calculated  to 
gi  •  <  a  proper  crank  to  our  natural  thoughtlessness  and  le- 
vi  >  •  The  indolence  ot  mankind,  «,nd  their  lovv  ot  pleasure, 
Spread  through  all  characters  and  ranks,  som<-  (degree  of 
av-  ision  to  what  is  grave  and  Berious,  1  iu  y  -rasp  at  any 
obj«  ct,  t  ither  ot  business  or  unuscment,  which  makes  the 
p  <-s.  nt  fiionu-nt  j)ass  smoothly  away  ;  which  carn<  s  tlx  ir 
thoughts  abroad,  and  saws  them  from  thv  trouble  oi  re- 
fl>  etmg  <^n  tlunisi  Ivi  s.  With  too  many,  this  passes  into  a 
habit  ot  constant  dissipation.  It  their  fortune  and  rank  al- 
low them  to  indulge  their  inclinations,  they  devote  them- 
selves to  the  pursuit  of  amusement  through  all  its  different 
forms.  The  skiliul  arrangtment  of  its  successive  scenes, 
the  preparatory  study  for  shining  in  each,  are  the  only 
cxt  rnons  in  which  their  understanding  is  employed.  Such 
a  mode  of  life  may  keep  alive  for  a  while,  a  fmolous  viva- 
c  ty  :  it  may  improve  men  in  some  of  those  exui  ior  ac- 
complishnu  nts,  \\hich  sparkle  in  the  eyes  of  the  giddy  and 
vain  ;  but  it  must  sink  them  in  the  esteem  of  all  the  wise. 
It  renders  them  strangers  to  themselves  ;  and  useless,  if  not 
pernicious  to  the  world-  They  lose  every  manly  principle. 
Tht-ir  minds  become  relaxed  and  effeminate.  All  that  is 
great  or  respectable  in  thu*  human  character  is  buried  un- 
der a  mass  of  trifles  and  follies. 

If  some  measures  ought  to  be  taken  for  rescuing  the 
mind  from  this  disgraceful  levity  ;  it  souie  principles  must 
be  acquired,  which  may  give  more  dignity  and  steadiness 
to  conduct ;  where  are^hese  to  be  looked  for  ?  Not  surely 
in  the  house  of  trasting,  where  every  object  flatters  the 
senses,  and  strengthens  the  seductions  to  which  we  arc  al- 


Pathetic  Pieces.  77 

ready  prone  ;  where  the  spirit  oi  dissipation  circulates  from 
heart  to  heart  ;  and  the  children  of  tolly  mutually  admire 
and  are  admired.  it  is  in  the  sober  and  serious  house  of 
mourning  mat  ihe  tide  or  vanity  is  made  to  turn,  and  a  new 
dirt  i  non  given  to  ihe  current  of  thought.  When  some  af- 
fecting incident  presents  a  strong  discovery  ot  the  decent ul- 
ness  ot  all  worldly  joy,  and  rouses  our  sensibility  to  human 
wo;  when  we  behold  those  with  whom  we  had  lately  min- 
gled in  the  house  ot  feasting-  sunk  by  some  ot  the  sudden 
vicissitudes  of  lite  into  the  vale  ot  misery ;  or  when,  in  sad 
siK  nee,  we  stand  by  the  triend  whom  we  had  loved  as  our 
oun  soul,  stretched  on  the  bed  of  death  ;  thenjs  the  season 
vvrun  this  world  begins  to  appear  in  aju^vrlTght ;  when  the 
hi: art  opens  to  virtuous  senuments^'atid  is  led  into  that  train 
or  reflection  which  ought  to'dhect  life.  He  who  before 
knew  not  what  it  was  to  commune  with  his  heart  on  any 
serious  subject,  now  puts  the  question  to  himselt,  for  what 
purpose  he  was  s<  nt  forth  into  this  mortal,  transitory  state; 
what  his  fate  is  likely  to  be  when  it  concludes;  and  what 
judgment  he  ought  to  forai  of  those  pleasures  which  amuse 
for  a  little,  but  which,  he  now  sees,  cannot  save  the  heart 
from  anguish  in  the  evil  day$  Touched  by  the  hand  of 
thoughtful  melancholy,  that  airy  edifice  of  bliss,  which  fan- 
cy had  raised  up  tor  him,  vanishes  away7.  He  beholds,  in 
thr  place  of  it,  the  lonely  and  barren  desert,  in  which,  sur- 
rounded with  auiny  a  disagreeable  object,  he  is  left  musing 
upon  himself.  The  time  which  he  has  mispent,  and  the  fa- 
culties which  he  has  misemployed,  his  foolish  levity  and  his 
criminal  pursuits,  ail  rise  in  painful  prospect  before  hiua. 
That  unknown  state  of  existence  into  which,  race  after 
race,  the  children  of  men  pass,  strikes  his  mind  with  so- 
lemn awe. — Is  there  no  course  by  which  he  can  retrieve 
his  past  errors?  Is  there  no  superior  power  to  which  he 
can  look  up  for  aid  ?  Is  there  no  plan  of  conduct  which,  if 
it  exempt  him  not  from  sorrow,  CM\  at  least  procure  him 
consolation  amidst  the  distressful  exigencies  of  life  ? — Such 
meditations  as  these,  suggested  by  the  house  of  mourning, 
frequently  produce  a  change  in  the  whole  character.  They 
revive  those  soarks  of  goodness  which  were  nearly  extin- 
guised  in  the  dissipated  mind  ;  and  give  rise  to  principles 
ot  corvl'iiM  nor  rational  in  themselves,  and  more  suitable 
to  the  human  state. 


!  7*  Seqnel  to  the  English  Reader. 

In  the  next  place,  impressions  of  this  nature  not  only 
pr«  >duct-  moral  seriousness,  but  awaken  sentiments  ol  piety, 
an  hi  ing  men  into  the  sanction  of  religion.  O.n  mi^ht, 
in/deed,  imagine  that  the  blessings  of  a  prosperous  condi- 
tion would  prove  the  most  natur,,l  incitements  to  devotion; 
ami  that  when  men  were  happy  in  thi  msi  Ives,  and  saw  no- 
thing but  happiness  around  them,  the}  could  not  fail  grate- 
full)  to  acknowledge  that  God  v\ho  4i  giveth  them  all  things 
richly  to  enjoy."  Yet  such  is  their  corruption,  tnat  they  are 
n.ver  more  ready  to  forget  their  hem  factor,  than  when 
loaded  with  his  bttOelus  .The  giver  is  corcealed  from  their 
careless  and  inattentut  vi  \\,t>v  the  cloud  of  luso\\n  gifts. 
When  their  life  continues  to  flow  in  one  smooth  current, 
un?  uiiied  by  any  grills  ;  when  they  neither  receive  in  their 
own  circumstances,  nor  allow  themselves/ to  receive  from 
the  circumstances  of  others,  any  admonitions  of  human  in- 
stability, they  not  only  become  regardless  of  Providence, 
but  are  in  hazard  of  contemning  it.  Glorying  in  their 
strength,  and  lifted  up  by  the  pride  of  life  into  supposed  m- 
di  pendence,  that  impious  sentiment,  if  not  uttered  by  the 
niouih.  yet  t^o  ohen  lurks  in  the  hearts  of  many  during 
th-  ir  Nourishing  periods,  ^What  is  the  Almighty  that  we 
s^  Id  serve  him,  and  what  profits  should  we  have  if  we 
pray  unto  hi 

if  such  be**  the  tendency  of  the  house  of  feasting,  how 
ntet  ssary  is  it  that,  by  some  change  in  their  situation,  m>  n 
should  be  obliged  to  enter  into  the  house  of  .mourning,  in 
ord< .  r  to  recover  a  proper  sense  of  theii  dependent  stai  ! 
It  is  there,  when  forsaken  by  the  gaieties  of  the  world,  and 
left  alone  with  the  Almighty,  that  we  are  made  to  perceive 
how  awful  his  government  is;  how  easily  human  greatness 
bends  before  him;  and  how  quickly  all  our  designs  and  mea- 
sure, at  his  interposal,  vanish  into  nothing.  There,  when 
tht  countenance  is  sad,  and  the  affections  are  softened  by 
grit  I  ;  when  we  sit  apart,  involved  in  serious  thought,  look- 
ing down  as  from  some  eminence  on  those  dark  clouds  that 
ba!>g  over  the  life  of  man,  the  arrogvncv  of  prosperity  is 
hn«v:!iled,  and  the  heart  meits  under  the  impressions  of  re- 
ligion. Formerly  we  were  taught,  but  now  we  see,  we  t  el, 
how  nuch  we  stand  in  need  of  an  Almighty  Prouc'or, 
smiiJst  tiu  changes  of  this  vain  world.  Our  soul  cl .  av  s  to 
him  who  u  despises  not,  nor  abhors  the  affliction  oi  the  af- 


Pathetic  Pieces. 


r<flBp th 
tht^God  o 


flictecl."  Prayer  flows  forth  of  its  own  accoro^HIn  the  re- 
lenting heart,  that  he  may  be  our  God,  and  thtTCrod  of  our 
friends  in  distress  ;  that  he  may  never  forsake  us  while  we 
are  sojourning  in  this  land  of  pilgrimage  ;  may  strengthen 
us  under  its  calamities,  and  bring  us  hereafter  to  those  ha- 
bitations of  rest,  where  we,  and  they  whom  we  love,  may 
be  delivered  from  the  trials  which'ali  are  now  doomed  t* 
endure.  The  discoveries  of  his  mercy,  which  he  has  made 
in  the  gospel  of  Christ,  are  viewed  with  joy,  as  so  many 
rays  of  light  sent  down  from  above,  to  dispel,  in  some  de- 
gree, the  surrounding  gloom.  A  Mediator  and  Intercessor 
with  the  sovereign  of  the  universe,  appear  comfortable 
names  ;  and  the  resurrection  of  the  just  becomes  the  pow- 
erful cordial  of  grief.  In  such  moments  as  these,  which  we 
may  justly  call  happy  moments,  the  soul  participates  of  all 
the  pleasures  of  devotion.  It  feels  the  pow'er  of  religion  to 
support  and  relieve.  It  is  softened  without  being  broken. 
It  is  full,  and  it  pours  itself  forth  ;  pours  itself  forth,  if  we 
may  be  allowed  to  use  the  expression,  into  the  bosom  of 
its  merciful  Creator. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show,  that,  on  various  occa- 
sions, u  sorrow  may  be  better  than  laughter." — Woulclst 
thou  acquire  the  habit  of  recollection,  and  fix  the  principles 
of  thy  conduct ;  wouldst  thou  be  led  up  to  thy  Creator  and 
Redeemer,  and  be  formed  to  sentiments  of  piety  and  devo- 
tion ;  wouldst  thou  be  acquainted  with  those  mild  and  ten- 
der affections  which  delight  the  compassionate  and  hu- 
mane ;  wouldst  thou  have  the  power  of  sensual  appt  tites 
tamed  and  corrected,  and  thy  soul  raised  above  the  igno- 
ble love  of  life,  and  fear  of  death  ?  go,  my  brother,  go — - 
not  to  scenes  of  pleasure  and  riot,  not  to  the  house  of  feast- 
ing and  mirth — but  to  the  silent  house  of  mourning ;  and 
adventure  to  dwell  for  a  while  among  objects  that  will  sof- 
ten thy  heart.  Contemplate  the  litekss  remains  of  what 
once  was  fair  and  flourishing.  Bring  home  to  thyself  the 
vicissitudes  of  life.  Recall  the  remembrance  of  the  friend, 
the  parent,  or  the  child,  whom  thou  tenderly  lovedst.  Look 
back  on  the  days  of  former  years ;  and  think  on  the  com- 
panions of  thy  youth,  who  now  sleep  in  the  dust.  Let  the 
vanity,  the  mutability,  and  the  sorrows  of  the  human  state9 
rise  in  full  prospect  before  thee ;  and  though  thy  "  counte,- 

7 


•  *  V|^  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 


nance  mznfue  mavie  saci,  tin  bean  shall  be  made  better." 
1  ins  sadness,  though  for  UK  present  it  dejects,  \^i  sh.Jl  in 
the  end  tortify  toy  spirit;  inspiring  thce  with  buch  senti- 
ments, and  prompting  such  resoiu  ion*  as  shah  ej.abh  thee 
to  enjo\,  with  more  real  advantage,  UK  rest  oi  life.  Dispo- 
sitions ot  tins  nature  foim  one  part  ol  tin.  character  ot  those 
mourners  whom  our  Saviour  hath  pronounced  bltssed  ;  and 
ol  those  to  wtioni  it  is  promised,  that  iC  sowing  in  tears, 
the)  snail  reap  in  joy."  A  gn-at  <!ifference  there  is  betuccn 
bti  ig  serious  and  melancholy  ;  and  a  melancholy  too  there 
is  01  that  kind  wnich  deserves  to  be  sometimes  imiui, 

Religion  hath,  on  the  whole,  provided  lor  every  good 
man  abundant  materi  is  ot  consol.uion  and  relit  1'  How 
dark  soever  the  present  face  ol  nuUnv  nny  appear,  it  dis- 
pels the  darkness,  when  it  brings  into  vuw  the  enure  sys- 
tem of  things,  and  extends  our  survey  to  the  whole  king- 
dom ol  God.  It  represents  \\hai  we  now  behold  as  only  a 
part,  and  a  small  part,  ol'  the  gt  m  ral  order.  It  assures  us, 
that  though  here  for  wise  ends,  misery  and  sorrow  are  per- 
mitted to  have  place,  these  temporary  evils  shall  in  the  end, 
advance  the  happiness  of  all  who  love  God,  and  are  faith- 
ful to  their  duty.  It  shows  them  this  mixed  and  confused 
scene  vanishing  by  degrees  a\va\,  an.;  pieparmg  iht  mtro- - 
duction  of  that  state,  where  the  house  of  mourning  shall  be 
shut  up  for  ever  ;  where  no  tears  are  seen,  ami  no  groans 
heard  ;  where  no  hopes  are  frustrated,  and  no  virtuous  con- 
nexions dissolved  ;  but  where,  undei  the  hgnt  of  the  Di- 
vine countenance,  goodness  shall  flourish  in  perpetual  kii- 
city.  I'h-iS.  though  religion  may  occasionally  chasten  our 
mi  ih  with  sadness  of  countenance,  yet  under  that  sadness 
it  illows  not  the  hearts  of  good  men  to  sink.  It  calls  upon 
th  m  to  rejoice  u  because  the  Lord  reigncth  who  is  their 
K<»rk,  and  the  most  high  God  who  is  their  Redeemer." 
Reason  likewise  joins  her  voice  with  that  of  religion  ;  ior- 
bidding  us  to  make  peevish  and  unreasonable  complaints  of 
h-.-n  *n  life,  or  injuriously  to  ascribe  to  it  more  evil  than  it 
contains.  Mixed  as  the  present  state  is,  she  pronounces, 
that  generally,  if  not  always,  there  is  more  h  ppnuss  than 
misery*  more  pleasure  than  pain,  in  the  condition  ot  en  n. 

BLAIR, 


(  81    ) 
CHAPTER  Vi.— DIALOGUES. 

SKCT1ON     1. THF.RON    AND   ASP  \SIO. 

Beauty  and  utility  combined  in  the  productions  of  nature. 

THKRON  and  AsPASio  took  a  morning  walk  into  the 
field  -  ;  their  spirits  eheeretl,  md  their  hnaginations  lively  ; 
gratitude  glowing  in  their  hearts,  and  the  whole  creation 
smiling  around  them. 

Ai'ur  sufficient  exercise,  they  seated  themselves  on  a 
mosM  hillock,  which  offered  his  couch.  The  rising  sun 
had  visited  the  spot,  to  dry  up  the  dews,  and  exhale  the 
damps,  that  might  endanger  health  ;  to  open  the  violets, 
and  to  expand  the  primroses,  that  <iecked  the  green.  '1  he 
whole  shade  of  the  wood  was  collected  behind  them  :  and 
a  beautiful,  extensive,  diversified  landscape  spread  itself 
before  them. 

Theron,  according  to  his  usual  manner,  made  many  im- 
proving remarks  on  the  prospect,  and  its  furniture.  He 
traced  the  footsteps  of  an  All-comprehending  contrivance, 
and  pointed  out  the  strokes  of  inimitable  skill.  He  observ- 
ed the  grand  exertions  of  power,  and  the  rich  exuberance 
of  goodness,  most  signally,  most  charmingly  conspicuous 
through  the  whole. — Upon  one  circumstance  he  enlarged, 
with  particular  satisfaction. 

THERON. — See!  Aspasio,how  all  is  calculated  to  adminis- 
ter the  highest  delight  to  mankind.  Those  trees  and  hedg* 
es,  which  skirt  the  extremities  of  the  landscape,  stealing 
away  from  their  real  bulk,  an  i  lessening  by  gentle  dimi- 
nutions, appear  like  elegant  pictures  in  miniature.  Those 
which  occupy  the  nearer  situations,  are  a  set  of  noble  im- 
ages, swelling  upon  the  eye,  in  full  proportion,  and  in  a 
variety  of  graceful  attitudes  ;  both  of  them  ornamenting; 
the  several  apartments  ot  our  common  abode,  with  a  mix- 
ture of  delicacy  and  grandeur. 

The  blossoms  that  array  the  branches,  the  flowers  tha*: 
embroider  the  m  ad,  address  and  entertain  our  eyes  with 
every  charm  of  beauty  :  whereas,  to  other  creatures,  they 
destitute  of  all  those  attractions,  which  result  from  a 
combination  of  the  loveliest  colours,  and  the  most  alluring 
fonm.  Yonder  streams,  that  glide,  with  smooth  serenity  ^ 
along  the  valleys,  glittering  to  the  distant  view,  like 


*2  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

of  polished  crystal,  or  soothing  the  ..ttciuive  enr,  with  the 
so.tness  oi  aquatic  murmurs,  are  not  less  exhilarating  to 
the  fancN,  than  refreshing  to  the  soil  through  which  ihry 
pass.  Tiu  h'ige.  enormous  mount-in  ;  the  sleep  aucl  dizzy 
pr  cipicc  ;  th.  pendent  horrors  of  the  craggy  promontory  ; 
wild  and  awt'il  as  they  .ire,  furnish  an  agreeable  entertain- 
ment to  hv  human  inin  ;  and  pL  ase,i  \</n  \\  hilt  they  urn  xe: 
whereas,  the  beasts  take  no  othi-r  notice  of  those  majestic 
deformiU  s,  than  to  -void  the  dangers  they  threaten/ 

ASP.»sio.  —  How  wonder;uliv  do  such  considerations  ex- 
alt our  idea  of  the  C  ,-->oiine*s,  his  ver\   distingui<-h- 
ing  goodness  to  mankind  !  And  should  they  not  proportion- 
ally endear  that   eternal    li  nei'.-i  tor   to  oui    hearts?      His 
•   houiu'nul  hiinu    has    with  prof  us-    liherality,  scatteti-d 
bl  ssings  among  all  ranks  of  animated  exist-  uce.    But  to  us 
••xtrcists  a  ovn,  licence'  of  a  very  superior  kind.    We  are 
treated  with  peculiar  attention.  XA  imitted  to  semes 
Iclight,  which  none  hut  ourselves  are  capable  of  relish- 
ing. 

TI«ERO.\? — Another  remark,  though  very  obvious,  is 
equally  important.  The  destination  of  all  these  external 
things  is  no  less  advantageous,  man  ih-  ir  formation  is  h  au- 
tiful.  The  bloom,  which  *  ngagf  s  the  eye  with  its  delicate 
hues,  is  cherishing  the  eml>r\o  fruit;  and  forming,  within 
its  silken  folds,  the  rudiments  of  a  future  dessert. — Those 
streams,  which  shine  from  afar,  like  fluid  silver,  are  much 
more  valuable  in  their  productions,  and  beneficial  in  their 
services,  than  they  are  beautiful  in  their  appearance.  They 
distribute,  as  they  roll  along  their  winding  banks,  cleanli- 
ness to  our  houses,  and  fruitfulness  to  our  lands.  They 
nourish,  and  at  their  own  expense,  a  never-failing  supply  of 
the  finest  fish.  They  visit  our  cities,  and  attend  our  wharfs, 
as  so  many  public  vehicles,  ready  to  set  out  at  all  hours. 

Those  sheep,  which  give  their  udders  to  be  drained  by 
the  busy  frisking  lambs,  are  fattening  their  flesh  for  our 
support;  and  while  they  fill  their  own  fleeces,  are  provid- 
ing for  our  comfortable  clothing.  Yonder  kine,  some  of 
which  are  browsing  upon  the  tender  herb,  others,  satiated 
with  pasturage,  and  ruminating  under  the  shady  covtrt, 
ti  nigh  conscious  of  no  such  design,  are  concocting,  for  our 
use,  oae  of  the  softest,  purest,  most  salutary  of  liquors* 


Dialogues.  83 

The  bees  that  fly  humming  about  our  seat,  and  pursue 
their  work  on  the  fragrant  blossoms,  arc  collecting  balm 
and  sweetness,  to  compose  the  richest  of  sirups  ;  which, 
through  the  produce  of  their  toil,  is  intended  for  our  good. 
N  iture  and  her  whole  family,  are  our  obsequious  servants, 
our  ever-active  labourers.  They  bring  the  fruits  of  their 
united  industry,  and  pour  them  into  our  lap,  or  deposit 
them  in  our  store-rooms. 

ASPASIO. — Who  cnii  ever  sufficiently  admire  this  im- 
mense benignitx  ? — The  Supreme  Disposer  of  events  has 
commanded  delight  and  profit  to  walk  hand  in  hand, 
through  his  ample  creation,  making  all  things  so  perfectly 
pleasing,  as  if  beauty  were  their  only  <• nd  ;  yet  all  things  so 
eminent!}  serviceable,  as  if  usefulness  had  been  their  sole 
design,— And-  as  a  most  winning  invitation  to  our  grati- 
tude, he  ha^  rendered  man  the  centre,  in  which  all  the  ema- 
nations or  his  beneficence,  diffused  through  this  terrestrial 
system,  finally  terminate.  HERVLY* 

SECTION    II., CADMUS   AND  HERCULES. 

Importance  of  Literature. 

HERCULES. — Do  you  pretend  to  sit  as  high  on  Olympus 
as  litrcules?  Did  you  kill  the  Ncmean  lion,  the  Eryman- 
thian  boar,  the  Lernean  serpi  nt,  and  Stvmphalian  birds  ? 
Did  \ou  destroy  tyra  fts  and  robbers?  You  value  yours  li 
gn  ally  on  subduing  one  serpent :  I  did  as  much  as  that 
while  I  lay  in  my  cradle. 

CADMUS. — It  is  not  on  account  of  the  serpent  that  I  boast 
mvs-  it  a  gre-.Ut  r  benefactor  to  Greece  than  you,  Actio  is 
should  be  valued  by  thrir  utility,  rather  than  their  spU  n« 
dour.  I  taugiit  Greece  the  art  of  writing,  to  which  laws 
owe  their  precision  and  permanency.  You  subdued  mon- 
sters ;  I  civilized  men.  It  i*  from  untamed  passions,  no| 
from  wild  beasts,  that  the  greatest  evils  arise  to  human  SO- 
CK-n  .  By  wisdom,  by  art,  by  the  united  strength  of  civil 
community,  men  have  been  enable J  to  subdiu  the  whole 
r  <ce  oi  lions,  bears,  and  serpents:  andi  what  is  more,  to 
bind  bv  laws  and  wholesome  regulations,  the  rVrocious  vU 
blence  and  dangerous  treachery  of  the  hunrift  disposition. 
Had  lions  been  destroyed  onlv  in  single  combat,  m<  ri  had 
but  a  baa  time  oi  it ;  and  what  but  laws  couid  awe  ibe 


84  Sequel  to  the  English 

men  who  killed  the  lions?  The  genuine  glory,  the  proper- 
distinction  ot  the  rational  species,  arise  from  the  perfection 
of  the  mental  powers.  Courage  is  apt  to  be  fierce,  .«nd 
strength  is  often  exerted  in  acts  of  oppression  ;  but  wis- 
dom is  the  associate  of  justice.  It  assists  her  to  form  equal 
laws,  to  pursue  right  measures,  to  correct  power,  protect 
weakness,  and  to  unite  individuals  in  a  common  interest 
and  general  welfare.  Heroes  may  kill  tyrants  ;  but  it  is  wis- 
dom and  laws  that  prevent  tyranny  and  oppression.  The 
operations  of  policy  far  surpass  the  labours  of  Hercules, 
preventing  many  evils  which  valour  and  might  cannot  even 
redress.  You  heroes  regard  nothing  but  glon  ;  and  scarce- 
ly consider  whither  the  conquests  which  raise  your  tame, 
are  really  beneficial  to  your  country.  Unhappy  are  the  peo- 
ple who  are  governed  by  valour  not  directed  by  prudence, 
and  nor  mitigated  by  the  gentle  aits! 

HERCULKS. — I  do  not  expect  to  find  an  admirer  of  my 
strenuous  life,  in  the  man  who  taught  his  countrymen  to- 
sit  still  and  read  ;  and  to  lose  the  hours  of  youth  and  action 
in  idle  speculation  and  the  sport  ot  words. 

CADMUS. — An  ambition  to  have  a  place  in  the  regisu-rs 
of  fame,  is  the  Eurystheus  which  imposes  heroic  labours  on 
mankind.  The  muses  incite  to  action,  as  well  as  entertain, 
the  hours  of  repose  i  and  I  think  you  should  honour  them 
for  presenting  to  heroes  so  noble  a  recreation,  as  may  pre- 
vent their  taking  up  the  distaff,  when  they  lay  down  the 
club. 

HERCULES. — Wits  as  well  as  heroes  can  take  up  the  dis- 
taff. What  think  you  of  their  thin-spun  systems  of  philoso- 
phy, or  lascivious  poems,  or  Milesian  fables*  Na\,what 
is  still  worseyare  there  not  panegyrics  on  tyrants,  and  books 
that  blaspheme  the  gods,  and  perplex  the  natural  sense  of 
right  and  wrong  ?  I  totli«  ve  it  Eurvsih,  us  w<.  re  to  set  me 
t  >  work  again,  he  would  find  me  a  worse  task  than  any  he 
imposed;  ru-  would  mak,  me  read  over  a  great  library; 
a  <1  I  would  serve  it  MS  I  did  the  H\  «,ra,  I  would  burn  as 
1  >«  nt  on,  that  one  chimera  might  not  rise  from  another, 
to  plague  mankind.  I  should  have  vulu  d  mvselt  more  on 
*  aring  the  library,  than  on  cleansing  the  Augean  stables. 
CADMUS  —It  is  in  hose  libraries  onl-  that  the  memoiy 
o  :ur  labours  exists.  The  ru  rov  s  of  Mnnit^on,  thtt  p.Hri- 
•u*  oi  rhwrmopylft  owe  their  lame  to  me.  Ail  the  wise  m- 


Dialogues. 

stitutions  of  lawgivers,  and  all  the  doctrines  of  sages,  had 
perished  in  the  ear,  like  a  dream  related,  it  letters  had  not 
preserved  them.  O  HercuUs!  it  is  not  tor  the  man  who 
preferred  virtue  to  pleasure,  to  he  an  enemy  to  the  muses. 
L<"t  Sardanapalus  and  the  silken  sons  of  luxury,  who  have 
wasted  life  in  inglorious  ease,  despise  the  records  of  action, 
which  bear  no  honourable  testimony  to  their  lives  :  '-nt  true 
merit,  heroic  virtue,  should  respect  the  sacred  e  rce  of 
lasting  honour. 

HERCULES. — Indeed,  if  writers  employ  themselves  only 
in  recording  the  acts  of  great  men,  much  might  be  said  in 
their  favour.  But  why  do  they  trouble  people  with  their 
meditations  ?  Can  it  be  of  any  consequence  to  the  world 
what  an  idle  man  has  been  thinking? 

CADMUS. — Yes  it  may.  The  most  important  and  ex  <  n- 
sive  advantages  mankind  enjoy,  are  greatly  owing  to  men 
tvho  have  never  quitted  their  closets.  To  them  mankind 
are  obliged  for  the  facility-  and  security  of  navigation.  T»ie 
invention  of  the  compass  has  opened  to  them  new  worlds* 
The  knowledge  of  the  mechanical  powers  has  enabled  th.;  rn 
to  construct  such  wonderful  machines,  is  perform  what  the 
united  labour  of  millions,  by  the  severest  drudgery,  could 
not  accomplish.  Agriculture  tr-o,  the  most  useful  of  arvs, 
has  received  its  share  of  improvement  from  \\\?.  s:.<ne 
source.  Poetry  likewise  is  of  excellent  use,  to  enable  the 
memory  to  retain  with  more  ease,  and  to  imprint  wi  h 
more  energy  upon  the  heart,  precepts  and  examples  ot  vir- 
tue. From  the  little  root  of  a  few  letters,  science  has  spread 
its  branches  over  ail  nature,  and  raised  its  head  to  the  hea- 
vens. Some  philosophers  have  entered  so  far  into  the  coun- 
sels of  Divine  Wisdom,  as  to  explain  much  of  the  great 
operations  ot  nature.  The  dimensions  and  distances  of  the 
planets,  the  causes  of  their  revolution*,  ih;-  path  of  comets^ 
and  the  ebbing  and  flowing  of  tides,  are  understood  and 
explained.  Cm  any  thing  raise  the  glory  of  ihu  hum  :n  spe- 
cks more,  than  to  see  a  little  creature,  inhabui-'g  a  small 
spot,  amidst  innumerable  worlds,  taking  a  survey  of  rhe 
univt-rse,  comprehending  its  arrangement,  and  entering  into, 
tht  sera  me  of  that  wonderful  connexion  and  'convspnnd- 
ence  of  things  so  remote,  and  winch  it  seem  great  cx- 
en  ton  of  Omnipotence  to  have  established  ?  W  ,«'  a  vo- 
lume of  vyisuoui,  what  a  noble  theology  uo  those  disco ve« 


fe 

vies  open  to  us  1  While  sonic  superior  geniuses  have  soar- 
ed to  these  suMime  subjects,  orhcr  sagacio-!-  an  .  diligent 
minds  have  I)*  n  enquiring  itit'j  the  most  minim:  works  of 
the  Infinite  Artificer  :  the  same  care,  the  same  providence 
is  exerted  throu.  hole  ;  and  \ve  should  Irani  from  it, 

that  to  true  wisdom,  utility  and  fitness  appear  perfection, 
and  whatever  is  b 

lir.KcuLJ>. — I  :t:  as  far  as  i-.tant 

fr»  action.  I  like  th-  impu. \\-nt  <>i  navigation,  and  -he  dis- 
cover\-  o1  the  g;  gl«>'"»e,  hec-«use  it  op«.r.s  a 

wider  fi   id  for  th  to  hustlv  in. 

d  "i  11   rcuks.  ikit  if  'learn- 
ed :IK.II  art  i<>  he  they  give  to  ac~ 
n  th   >r   v,  >  tp  be  valued 
,h   ir  t  nd  I  ,on,  and  nio- 
1 1  at  ardour.    •  •.  •    ach 
legislator  by  uh  :'                                                 nc  powerful  ; 
i\'au:  cmz  n,  tu                                      the    lovt-   of 
ty  an.',  order.      'I'iv.    \\  ru                  iges  point  out  a   pri- 
ll of  virtue  ;  and  show 'that  the  best  empire  is  s«.lf- 
/duin^  cjur  passions  is  the  noblest 

H:  i;  —  The  true  spirit  of  hen, ism  acts  by  a  gtne- 

ttnp'.iis  ,  and  wants  neither  the  experience  of  histoiy, 

di     doi-.trmts  of  philosopher!  to  din  ft  it.      But  do  not 

e  ..nd  srinicis  u u.ier  men  c  [}\  minatt,  luxurious,  and  in- 
-4(ti\,  ?  vou  deny  that  wit  and  learning  are  often 

niaue  suhs  rvi  nt  to  v«  r\  bad  purposes? 

c;  i  DMU>  — 1  \\  ll  ov.  n  that  there  are  some  natures  so  hap- 
pil\  lorm.  rt,  thcv  s.rarceh  want  the  assistance  ot  a  master, 
:-u!  J  the  rules  i.-t  art.  to  g>ve  th^m  force  or  gr,«c.  in  every 
ti'.nu;  the\  do.  Hut  tlv.se  favoured  geniuses  a^e  few.  As 
It  i  ning  Nourish  s  onlv  where  ease,  plenty,  and  mild  go- 
v  tmueni  su!.--ist  ;  m  so  rich  a  soil,  and  under  so  soft  »  cli- 
mate, the  weeds  oi  luxury  will  spring  up  among  the  flow  rs 
ut:  but  th''  spontaneous  \weds  would  grow  nnre  rank, 
if  n  e\  were  allow*  d  the  undisturbed  possession  of  the  fit  Id. 
L  U'  rs  keep  a  frugal  temperate  nation  from  growing  fero- 
ci  us,  a  rich  one  Iron,  '  nominjr  entirely  sensual  and  de- 
b  died,  Everv  gift  of  heaven  is  sometimes  abused  ;  but 
g',od  sen--  and  h  •  ti'lrus,  hv  a  >...t'n-.d  Ian.  gravitate  to- 
virtue.  Accidents  may  drive  them , out  of  their  pro» 


Dialogues.  87' 

per  direction;  but  such  accidents  are  an  alarming  omen., 
and  oi  dire  portent  to  the  times.  For  if  virtue  cannot  keep 
to  her  allegiance  those  men,  who  in  their  hearts  confess  her 
divine  right,  and  know  the  value  of  hi  r  laws,  on  whose  fi- 
delity and  obedience  can  she  depend?  Mav  such  geniuses 
never  descend  to  flatu  r  vice,  encourage  folly,  or  propagate 
irreligion  ;  but  exert  all  their  powers  in  the  service  ot  vir- 
tue,  and  celebrate  the  noble  choice  of  those,  who,  like  Her- 
sules,  preferred  her  to  pleasure  \  LORD  LYTTLETON. 

SECTION  III.— MARCUS   AURELIUS  PrilLOSOPtfUS  AND 
SEKVIUS  TULLIUS. 

An  absol'itt  and  a  limited  monarchy  compared. 

SERVIUS  TULLIUS. — YES,  Marcus,  though  I  own  von  to 
have*  been  the  first  of  mankind  in  virtue  and  goodness; 
t'  <""igb  while  you  govern--*!,  philosophy  sal  on  the  throne, 
and  diffused  the  benign  influences  of  her  administration 
over  th-  whole  Roman  Empire,  yet  as  a  king,  I  might,  per- 
haps, pretend  to  \\  nurit  even  superior  to  yours. 

MARCUS  AURKLIUS. — That  philosophy  you  ascribe  to 
me  i',-s  tangnt  me  to  feel  ny  own  detects,  and  to  venerate 
the  virtues  of  other  men.  Tell  me,  therefore,  in  what  con- 
sisted the  superiority  pF.y puf  merit,  as  king. 

SEKVIUS  TULLIUS. — It  consisted  in  this,  that  I  gave  my 
people  freedom.  I  diminished,  I  limited  the  kingly  power, 
when  it  was  pi  iced  in  my  hands.  I  need  not  :ell  you,  that 
the  plan  of  government  instituted  by  me,  was  adopted  by 
the  Romans,  when  they  had  driven  out  Tarquin,  the  de- 
stroyer of  their  liberty;  and  gave  its  form  to  that  republic, 
composed  of  a  due  mixture  of  the  regal,  aristocratical  and 
democratical  powers,  the  strength  and  wisdom  of  which 
subdued  the  world.  Thus  all  the  glory  ol  that  great  peo- 
ple, who  for  many  ages  excelled  the  rest  of  mankind,  ia 
the  arts  of  policy,  belongs  originally  to  me, 

M  \RCUS  AURELIUS — Tin  re  is  much  truth  in  what  u 
sa\ .  But  would  nor  tru  Rf-mi»ns  have  done  better,  if,  .if.tr 
the  expulsion  of  Tarquin,  they  had  vested  the  regat  po-., ;  r 
in  a  limited  monarch,  instead  of  placing  it  in  two  annual 
elective  magistrates,  with  the  title  of  consuls  ?  This  was  a 
great  deviation  from  your  pi  n  of  government,  and  I  ih  "k 
an  unwise  one.  For  a  divided  royalty  is  a  bulccibm,  and 


88  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

absurdity  in  politics.  Nor  was  the  regal  power  committed 
to  uiv  ,4  iinmistration  of  consuls,  continued  in  their  L..i>ds 
•ugh,  to  enahl-  tht  in  to  tinr->h  my  act  oi  great  mo- 
ni  "  Fiom  hence  arose  a  mcessiu  oi  prr.'tongmg ;  -heir 
co.niir.'.nds  beyond  the  U  gal  ti  nn  ;  oi  shortening  the  inter- 
val p:\scribed  by  tlv  laus  !;.  the  elections  to  th 
offices;  ar.v:  -din-in  commissions  and 
po\,  r-rs,  by  all  \vhiiis  in  the  end  d  stroy.-d. 
vius  TULi.its  — l'n  resolution  whicii  ensued  ii(  on 
the  tl  .ah  oi  Lucivtia  w.<s  made  \vith  so  much  that 
it  is  mi  wonder  the  Ro.n;ms  abolished  in  their  inrv  the 
nanu  ot  king,  and  desired  to  weaken  a  powt  r,  the  exercise 
ol  \\hich  ha<l  b<  t  n  so  gi  it  vous  ;  though  the  doing  ot  this 
Was  attended  with  Jl  tiu  mconv  you  have  justly 
Observed.  But  it  ang«-r  acted  too  violrntly  in  reforming 
abuses,  philosophy  might  have  wisely  corrected  that  error. 
M  trcus  Aurclius  might  have  new-modelled  tlie  constitu- 
ti  n  «jf  Home,  lie  might  have  njadt  it  a  limited  monarchy,, 
leaving  to  the  emperor--  all  the  power  that  was  necessary 
to  govern  a  wide  extended  empire,  and  to  the  senate  and 
people  all  the  libertx  thai  could  be  consistent  with  order 
and  obedience  to  gov  rnmeut ;  a  liberty  purged  of  faction, 
and  gu.irded  ag-unst  anarchy. 

MARCUS  ALT  .Khius. — I  should  have  been  happy  indeed,, 
if  it  had  been  in  mv  power  to  do  such  good  to  my  country. 
But  heaven  will  not  force  its  blessings  on  men,  who  by  their 
vices  are  become  incapable  of  n  ceiving  them  Liberty,  like 
power,  is  only  good  for  those  who  possess  it,  when  it  is  un- 
d  r  the  constart  direction  of  virtue..  No  laws  can  h  ive 
force  enough  to  hinder  it  from  degenerating  into  faction 
and  anarchy,  where  the  morals  of  a  nation  are  depraved  ; 
and  conti'iued  habits  of  vice  will  eradicate  the  very  love  of 
it  out  of  the  I u- arts  of  a  people.  A  Marcus  Brutus,  in  my 
time,  could  not  have  drawn  to  his  standard  a  single  Itgioa 
of  Homaas.  But  further,  it  is  certain  that  the  spirit  of  li- 
berty is  absolute  ly  incompatible  with  the  spirit  of  conquest. 
To  keep  great  conquered  nations  in  subjection  and  obedi- 
ence, great  standing  armies  are  necessan.  The  generals  of 
those  armies  will  not  long  remain  subjects  :  anci  whoever 
acquires  dominion  by  the  sword,  mu-t  rule  by  the  sword. 
Jf  h-  I  clebiroy  liberty,  liberty  will  destroy  him. 


Dialogues.  89 

SERVIUS  TULLIUS. — D  >  you  then  justify  Augustus  for 
the  ch.t»i£  a  ma<U-  in  trie  Roman  government? 

M. -\KCUS  ,URI:LIUS. — i  do  not;  for  Augustus  had  no 
lawiul  authority  to  make  ,rut  chan  ,e.  His  powervv  as  usur- 
pation and  breach  oi  trust.  But  the  government,  which  he 
seized  with  a  violent  hand,  came  to  me  by  a  lawful  and  es- 
tabh-.hed  rule  of  succession. 

SKRVIUS  TULLIUS — Can  any  length  <>f  establishment 
make  despotism  lawful  ?  Is  not  liberty  an  inherent,  inalien- 
able right  oi  manbind  ? 

MARCUS  AURKLIUS. — They  have  an  inherent  right  to  be 
governed  by  laws,  not  by  arbitrary  will.  But  forms  ot  go- 
vernment may,  and  must  be  occasionally  changed,  with  the 
consent  of  the  people.  When  I  reigned  over  them,  the  Ro- 
mans were  governed  by  laws. 

SERVIUS  TULLIUS.— Yes,  because  your  moderation,  and 
the  precepts  of  that  philosophy  in  which  your  youth  had 
been  tutored,  inclined  you  to  make  the  laws  the  rule  of  your 
government,  and  the  bounds  of  your  power.  But  if  you 
had  desired  to  govern  otherwise,  had  they  power  to  re- 
strain you  ? 

MARCUS  AURELIUS. — They  had  not:  the  Imperial  au- 
thority in  rnv  tim^  had  no  limitations. 

SLRVIUS  TULI  lus. — Rome  therefore  was  in  reality  as 
much  enslaved  under  you,  as  under  \ our  son  ;  and  you  left 
him  the  power  of  tyrannising  over  it  by  Iv  re  iitan  nght. 

MARCUS  AURELIUS.— I  did — and  the  conclusion  of  that 
tyraunv  was  his  murder, 

SERVIUS  TULLES. — Unhappy  father!  unhappy  king  I 
what  a  detestable  thing  is  absolute  monarchy,  when  even 
the  virtues  of  ^Marcus  Aurelius  could  not  hinder  it  from 
being  destructive  to  his  family,  and  pernicious  to  his  roim- 
Iry.  any  longer  than  the  period  of  his  own  life  !  But  how 
happy  is  that  kingdom,  in  which  a  limited  mo;i.t>\  ,:  pre- 
sides over  a  state  so  justly  poised,*  that  it  guards  itself 

*  The  young-  reader  will  here  be  naturally  reminded  of  the  excel- 
lence of  the  British  Constitution;  a  fabric  which  has  stood  the  test  of 
ages^and  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  world.  It  combines  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  three  great  forms  of  government,  without  their  incon- 
veniences ;  it  preserves  a  happy  balance  amongst  them  :  and  it  contains 
within  itself  the  power  of  recu;  ing-  to  first  principles,  and  of  vectvfy- 
ing  all  tile  disorders  of  time.  :  •--  d'  >;ne  providence  pc-rpetu-ite  this 
invaluable  constitution ;  and  excite  in  the  hearts  of  Britons,  grateful 


90  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

from  such  evils,  and  has  no  r.eed  to  take  refuge  in  arbitra- 
ry power  agamsi  the  dangers  ot  anarchy  ;  which  is  almost 
as  bad  a  r^ourcc,  as  it  would  l;e  lor  a  ship  to  run  itsi  If  on 
a  rock,  in  oruer  to  escape  from  the  agitation  of  .  u  mpest, 

LORD  LYTTLETON. 

SECTION  IV.— THERON  AND  ASPASIO. 
On   the  excellence  of  -the  Holy  Scriptures. 

THERON. — i  fear  my  irie^d  suspects  me  to  be  somewhat 
tra\  i  Hi^,  or  cieietiive,  iu  vuirration  for  the  Scriptures. 

ASPASIO. — No,  Theron,  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  your 
taste  ami  discernment,  than  to  harbour  -my  such  suspieion. 

TH  RON. —  The  Sci  iptures  are  certainly  an  inexhaustible 
fund  ot  materials,  for  the  most  delightful  and  ennobling  dis- 
course and  meditation.  When  we  consider  the  Author  of 
those  sacred  books,  that  they  came  originally  from  Heaven, 
\\<Y  ,  iriai  d  by  Divine  wisdom,  have  the  same  consum- 
mate excellence  as  the  works  oi  creation  ;  it  is  really  sur- 
prising, that  we  are  not  olten  searching,  by  study,  by  med- 
itation, or  converse,  into  one  or  other  of  those  important 
Volumes. 

ASPASIO. — I  admire,  I  must  confess,  the  very  language 
and  compositi'  n  ot  the  Bible.  Would  you  see  history  in  all 
her  simplicity,  and  all  her  force  ;  most  beautifully  easy,  yet 
irresistibly  striking: — See  her,  or  rather  feel  her  energy, 
touching  the  nicest  movements  of  the  soul,  and  triumphing 
•vt  r  O'.r  passions,  in  the  inimitable  narrative  of  Joseph's 
life T'he  representation  of  Esau's  bitter  distress  ;  the  con- 
versation pieces  of  Jonathan  and  his  gallant  friend  ;  the  me- 
morable journal  of  the  disciples  going  to  Emmaus  ;  are 
finished  models  of  the  impassioned  and  affecting. — Here  is 
•othing  studied  ;  here  are  no  flights  of  fancy  ;  no  embellish- 
mt-nts  of  oratory,  li  we  sometimes  choose  a  plaintive  strain,  • 
sur.h  as  soiuns  the  mind,  and  sooths  an  agreeable  melan-  < 
eholy,  are  any  of  the  classic  writers  superior  in  the  elo- 
quence of  mourning,  to  David's  pathetic  elegy  on  his  be- 
loved Jonathan ;  to  his  most  passionate  and  inconsolable 
moan  over  the  lovely  but  unhappy  Absalom  ;  or  to  that 
melodious  wo,  which  warbles  and  bleeds,  in  every  line  of 
Jeremiah's  Lamentations  ? 

acknowledgements  ibr  this  blessing,  and  fof  many  others  by  wluCJt 
they  are  eminently  distinguished ! 


es.  91 

Are  we  admirers  of  antiquity  ? — Here  we  are  led  back, 
beyond  the  universal  deluge,  and  far  beyond  the  d.;tt  oi: 
any  other  annals. — We  are  introduced  to  the  eailiest  inha- 
bitants of  the  earth.  We  take  a  view  ol  mankind  in  their 
undisguised  primitive  plainness,  when  the  days  of  their  life 
were  but  little  short  of  a  thousand  years.  We  are  brought 
acquainted  with  the  origin  of  nations  ;  with  the  creation  of 
the  world;  and  with  the  birth  of  time  itself. 

Are  we  delighted  with  vast  achievements? — Where  is 
any  thing  comparable  to  the  miracles  in  Egypt,  and  the 
wonders  in  the  field  of  Zoan  ?  to  the  memoirs  of  the  Israel- 
ites passing  through  the  depths  of  the  sea ;  sojourning 
amidst  the  inhospitable  deserts;  and  conquering  the.  king- 
dom of  Canaan:' — Here  we  behold  the  fundamental  la.vs 
of  the  universe,  sometimes  suspended,  sometimes  revers- 
ed ;  and  not  only  the  current  of  Jordan,  but  the  course  of 
i^iature  controlled. 

if  we  want  maxims  of  wisdom,  or  have  a  taste  for  the 
laconic  style — how  copiously  may  our  wants  be  supplied, 
and  how  delicately  our  taste  gratified  !  especially  in  the 
book  of  Provr rbs,  Ecclesiastes,  and  some  of  the  minor  pro- 
phets.. Here  are  the  most  sage  lessons  of  instruction,  adapt- 
ed to  every  circumstance  of  life  ;  formed  upon  the  experi- 
ence of  all  preced.ng  ages  ;  and  perfected  by  the  unerring 
Spirit  of  inspiration.  These  are  delivered  with  such  re- 
markable conciseness,  that  one  might  venture  to  say,  t very- 
word  is  a  sentence  ;  at  1-^ast,  every  sentence  may 'be  called 
an  apothegm,  sparkling  with  brightness  of  thought,  or 
weighty  with  solidity  of  sense.  The  whole,  like  a  profusion 
of  pearls,  containing,  in  a  very  small  compass,  a  value  al- 
most immense ;  all  heaped  up  (as  an  ingenious  writer  ob- 
serves) ufith  a  confused  magnificence,  above  the  little  nice* 
ties  of  order. 

It  we  look  for  strength  of  reasoning,  and  warmth  of  ex- 
hortation, or  the  manly  boldness  of  impartial  reproof;  let 
us  have  recourse  to  the  acts  of  the  apostles,  and  to  the  vpis- 
tles  of  Paul.  These  are  a  specimen,  or  rather  these  are  the 
standard  of  them  all. 

Another  recommendation  of  the  Scriptures,  is,  that  they 
afford  the  most  awful  and  most  amiable  manifestations  oi 
the  iJcity.  His  &lory  shines,  and  ms  goodness  smiles,  in 

8 


••'iish  Re: 

those  Divine  pagr  s,  with  unpar.Jhd  lustre.    II 
a  satisfactory  explanation  oi  our  0  .    The  origin  ot 

*\  n  is  traced  ;  the  cause  oi  all  our  mi-  ind 

the  remedy,  the  infallible  remedy,  both  clearly  shown,  and 
freely  oik  red.  The  atom  muit  and  ',:  :  ist 

las  a  turn  foundation  lor  ail  our  hopes  ;  v  hilt-  gi .  titude  ior 
his  dying  love  suggest  the  most  winning  incittrm  nts  to 
ever)  dut\  . —  Morality,  i  heron,  sour  (and,  let  me  add, 
my)  admired  morality,  is  here  delineated  in  all  its  hi  nich- 
es, is  placed  upon  its  , roper  basis,  and  raised  to  its  highest 
elevation.  The  Holy  Spirit  is  promised  to  enlighten  ihe 
da'kness  of  our  understandings,,  and  strengthen  thu  imbe- 

cilit\  of  our  wills.  :.  ample Can  you  indulge 

me  in  this  favourite  t 

THKRON  — It   is,   I   asf  lire  \  -  g  to  my- 

^li.    Your  enlargements,  therefor-,  need  no  oj 

ASPASIO. — VVha:   ample  provision   is  mad  rr(  d 

to,  by   these    excellent  ior  all  our  spiritual  %ants  ! 

nncl,  in  this  n  sj><  ct,  !:  >w  indi  iputal  : 
all  other  compositi 

pirjvoking  M:  -^'t  1f^m 

son  to   point  our  filiation,  anc. 

Keasoi^  !  Deity  m 

nd   gran'  ,iess.'^ 

B\it  the  Sciiptur«.s   I 

co  ri 

G-.d  hub  set  torth   :•. 

qinties  :  he  will  r  '  more. 

ArifWeass    ult(  on,  or  averse  to  c' 

losophy   m;iN  ust,  or  to 

reluctant  miiKi,  ;  the  cL-- 

urging  the  fi;  j  -'  expediems  ju?t 

calculated    to  accomplish   the  ends  proposed,  as  the  flr 
I'.cation  of   a  cc^web  to   dttk-nd   us  from    the   ball  oi 
Tin    13i»>K'  recommends  no  such  incom,  et 
u  MX   gi  rs  almight)    Author,  Wk  is  v 

cient  for  thet."— u  Sin  shall  not  have  dominion  over  you.  | 
Thr  grcar.  Jchova,  in  whom  is  everlasting  strength,  "  worM 
cth  in  us  both  to  will  and  to  doiof  his  good  pleasim . 

Should  w    be  visited  with  sickness,  or  overtake! 
calamity,    he  consolation  which   Plato  oil.  i -,  is,  that  sue 
dispensations  coincide  with  the  universal  plan  ot  divine  „<> 


vernment.  Virgil  will  tell  us,  for  ouf  relief,  that  afflictive 
visitations  are,  more  or  less,  the  unavoidable  lot  oi  all  men. 
Another  moralist  whispvrs  in  tn<  d-Jei:ted  sutKrer's  ear, 
"  Impatience  adds  to  ihe  load  :  wh  reas  a  c  dm  submis- 
sion r  ndrrs  it  more  supportable." — Does  the  word  of  re- 
velation dispense  such  s^>i  'tU  s  n  '-  Uig  tive  cordials?-— 
No  :  thos  sacred  pages  inform  us, that  tribulations  are  fa- 
therly chastisements,  tkcns  of  our  Maker's  love,  and  truits 
ot  his  care  ;  that  they  arr  intended^ to  work  in  us  tru.  peace- 
able fruits  of  righteousness  ;  and  to  work  out  for  us  an  eter- 
nal weight  of  glory. 

Should  we,  under  the  summons  of  death,  have  recourse 
to  the  most  celebrated  comforters  in  the  heathen  world; 
they  would  increase  our  apprehensions,  rather  than  miti- 
gattj  our  dread-  Death  is  represented,  by  the  great  master 
of  their  schools,  as  the  most  formidable  of  all  evils.  They 
were  not  able  to  determine,  whether  the  soul  survived  ihe 
body.  Whereas,  this  inspired  volume  strips  the  monster  of 
his  horrors,  or  tun*s  him  into  a  messenger  of  peace ;  gives 
him  an  angel's  face,  and  a  deliverer's  hand;  and  ascertains 
to  the  souls  ot  the  righteous,  an  immediate  translation  into 
the  regions  of  bliss. 

THERON. — Another  very  distinguishing  peculiarity  of 
the  sacred  writings  just  occurs  to  my  n.ind  ;  the  method  of 
communicating  advice,  or  administering  reproof,  by  para- 
bles :  a  method  which  levels  itself  to  the  lowest  apprehen- 
sion, without  giving  offence  to  the  most  supercilious  tem- 
per. Our  Lord  w -s  asked  by  a  student  of  the  Jewish  law, 
u  Who  is  my  neighbour?"  which  implied  another  question, 
Ct  How  is  he  to  be  loved?"  The  inquirer  was  conceited  of 
himself,  yet  ignorant  of  the  truth,  and  deficient  in  his  duty. 
Had  the  wise  instructor  of  mankind  abruptly  declared, 
lfc  Thou  neither  knowest  the  former,  nor  fulfillest  the  lat- 
ter ;"  probably  the  querest  would  have  reddened  with  in- 
dignation, and  departed  in  a  rage.  To  teach,  therefore,  and 
not  disgus  ;  to  convince  the  man  of  his  error,  and  not  ex- 
asperate his  mind,  he  frames  a  reply,  as  amiable  in  the 
m  nmer,  as  it  was  well  adapted  to  the  purpose. 

A  certain  person  going  down  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho, 
among  thieves.   Not  content  to  rob  him  of  his  treasure,, 

ey  strip  him  of  his  garments  ,-.  wound  him  with  great  bar- 


94  Sequel  to  the  English 

>ty ;  and  leave  him  half  dead.   Soon  alter  this  calamitous 
accident,  a  traveller  happens  to  omie  a] 
and  what  rend  rs  him  more  likely  to  afford  n-!ii  f,  In'  is  >,ne 
of  the    ministers  of    n  li-ion  ;    one    \\  ho   i.,  )C(S   ,he 

lovely   1<  ssons   of    hum.  nitv    and   chaiity;    and    u  im    u.ts, 
;h<  refore,  undo  die  strop.,  mpliiythem 

iis  own  j. 
ploi 
9V 

r),T<    p   ss<  s    h\   on  tin-  otl:i  r 
"'<'    ^    v-  inn  a  Levitt  aj.pnnu  i 

.  ihe  n»i^  c- 

RUi  \ t  \    of    UK    c;,st  : 
very  gash  in  tin-  Un  ding  fl 

fort,  nor  i).   Last 

:i  comes  a  Samaritan  ;  one  ol  the  ahliorred  nation,  \\  IK. in 

;he  Jt  us  hated  \\  ith  the  moht implacable  malignity.  Though 

the  Li-vitf  had  neglerted   an  expiring  brother;   though  the 

Eiirst  had  withheld  his  pity  from  one  of  the  Lord's  petu- 
tr  people;  the  very  moment  this  Samaritan  sees  the  un- 
happy suffertr,  he  melts  into  commiseration.  He  forgets 
the  embittered  foe,  and  considers  only  the  distressed  ft  1- 
low-creature.  He  springs  from  his  horse,  and  resolves  to 
intermit  his  journey.  The  oil  and  uine  intended  for  his 
own  refreshment,  he  freely  converts  into  healing  unguents. 
He  binds  up  the  wounds  ;  sets  the  disabled  stranger  upon 
his  own  beast ;  and  with  all  the  assiduity  of  a  servant,  with 
all  the  tenderness  of  a  brother,  conducts  him  to  an  inn. 
There  he  deposits  money  for  his  present  use  ;  charges  the 
host  to  omit  nothing  that  might  conduce  to  the  recovery 
or  comfort  of  his  guest;  and  promises  to  defray  the  whole 
expence  of  his  lodging,  his  maintenance,  and  his  cure. 

What  a  lively  picture  of  the  most  disinterested  and  ac- 
tive benevolence  !  a  benevolence  which  excludes  no  persons, 
not  even  strangers  or  enemies,  from  its  tender  regards ; 
\vhi(h  disdains  no  condescension,  grudges  no  cost,  in  its 
labours  of  love  !  Could  anv  method  of  conviction  have  been 
Hiore  forcible,  and  at  the  same  time  more  pleasing,  than  the 
interrogatory  proposed  by  our  Lord,  and  deduced  from 
the  narrative  ?  u  Which  now  oi  these  three,  thmkest  thou, 


nr  unto  him  thi<t  fell  among;  thieves  ?M  Or  can. 
there- be  cui  ,ui\ ice  m^re  suitable  to  the  occasion,  more  im- 
portant in  its  nature,  or  expressed  with  a  more  sententious 
energy,  than  that  which  is  contained  in  these  words  ;  "  Go 
thou-  and  do  likewise-  ?"  In  this  case,  the  learner  instructs,, 
the  delinquent  condemns  himself.  Bigotry  bears  away  its 
preju  !ic«  ;  and  pride,  (when  the  mond  so  sweetly,  so  im- 
perceptibly insinuates,)  even  pride  itself,  lends  a  willing 
ear  to  admonition. 

ASHASIO — It   has  been  very  justly  remarked,  that  this 
eloquence  of  similitude  is  equally  affecting  to  the  wise,  and 
inuliigible  to  thr  ignorant.      It  shows,  rather  than  relates, 
the  point  to  be  illustrated.    It  has  been  admired  by  the  best 
judges  in  all  ages  ;  but  nev'-r  was  carried  to  its  highest  per- 
fection, till  our  Lord  spoke  the  parable  of  th-.-   prodigal; 
ch  has  a  beauty  that  no  paraphrase  can  heighten  ;  a  per- 
aity  th-it  renders  all  interpretation  needless  ;  and  a  force 
i  even   reader,  not  totally  insensible,  must  feel. 

THi  RON. —  The  condescension  and  goodness  of  God  are 
every  where  conspicuous.   In  the  productions  of  nature,  he 
conveys  to  us  ihe  most  valuable  fruits,  by  the  intervention 
oi  the_  loveliest  blossoms.      Th  »ugh  the  present  is  in  itself 
extremely  acceptable,  he-  has  given  it  an  additional  endear- 
)t,  by  the  b»  auties  which  array  it,  or  the  ptrlumes  which 
••mind  it.     in  the  p  iges  of  revelation,  likewise,  hf  h  ts 
communicated  to  us  the  most  glorious  truths,  adorned  with 
th?  excellences  of  composition.    They  are,  as  one  of    th  u* 
writers  •  -antly  speaks,   "  like  apples  of  gold  in  pic- 

tures (if  silver." 

ASPABIO — Who  then  would  not  willingly  obey  that  be* 
niqn  command  ?  fc  Thou  shalt  talk  of  tht  rn  when  thou  sft- 
t  st  in  thine  house,  and  when  thou  wulk^st  bv  the  way  ^ 
\vhen  thou  liest  down,  and  when  thou  risest  up." 

When  I  consider  the-  language  oj'  the  Scriptures,  and 
sometimes  <  xperience  the  hok  energy  which  accompanies 
them,  I  am  inclined  to  sav,  vt  Other  writings,  though  poiish- 
ed  with  tht  nicest  touched  ot  art,  onlv  tinkle  on  the  ear,  or 
afF(  ct  us  like  the  shepherd's  reed.  But  th^se,  even  amidst 
all  their  no'ile  ease,  stride,  alarm,  transport  us."  When  I 
consider  th«.r  contents  of  the  Scriptures,  and  i^elievr  ?nvself" 
interested  in  the  promises  th  y  make,  and  the  privileges 

*  8 


96  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

they  confer,  I  am  induced  to  cry  out,  u  What  are  all  the 
other  books  in  the  world,  compared  with  these  invaluable 

VOiUineS  !"*  HERVJiY. 


CHAPTER  VII — PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 
SECTION  i. —  The  d  fence  of  Socrates  before  his  Judges. 

SOCRATES,  in  his  defence,  employed  neither  artifice  nor 
tV  glitter  ot  his  eloquence.  He-  had  not  recourse  either  to 
solicitation  or  entreaty.  He  brought  neither  his  wife  nor 
children  to  in-line  the  judges  in  his  favour,  by  their  sighs 
and  tears.  But  though  he  firmly  refused  to  make  use  of  any 
other  voice  than  his  own,  and  to  appear  before  his  judges 
in  the  submissive  posture  of  a  suppliant,  he  did  not  behave 
in  that  m  nner  from  pride,  or  conu-mpt  of  the  tribunal  :  it 
was  from  a  noblr  and  intrepid  assurance,  resulting  from 
great n-.-ss  of  soul,  and  truj  consciousness  ot  his  truth  and  in- 
noc  re  .  His  deft  nee  had  nothing  timorous  or  weak  in  it*. 
His  discourse  was  bold,  manly,  generous,  without  passion, 
•vii-iout  (.motion,  full  of  the  noble  liberty  of  a  philosopher, 
w'^th  no  oth-r  ornament  than  that  ot  truth,  and  bnghu 
U'-.'Vi'rsr'Hy  with  the  character  and  language  of  innocence. 
PI  io,  vvno  was  present,  transcribed  it  afterwards,  and 
without  any  additions,  composed  f*o«n  it  ih  work  which 
b«  calls  the  Apology  of  Socrate  ,  one  ot  the  -nost  consum- 
mate master-pieces  of  antiquity.  The  following  is  an  ex- 

.>  it. 

.n  accused  of  corrupting  the  youth,  and  of  instilling 

i«s  maxims   into  their  minds,  as  well   in   regard   to 

D. vine  worship.  rulirs  of  government.    You  know, 

Aihvn  uns,  thut  I  n,  v-.-r  suade  it  my   profusion   to  teach  : 

n  r  can  eMv\ ,  however  violent,  reproach    me   witn   having 

*  That  accomplished  scholar  and  distinguished  writer,  the  late  Sir 
Wli'.am  J"n'.s,  cMKtf  ,T  -slice  of  Bengal,  at  the  end  of  his  Kible,  wrote 
the  following  note ;  winch  coming  fnnn.  a  man  of  ins  profound  erudi- 
tion, and  pt'Hvct  knowledge  of  the  oriental  languages,  customs,  a-td 
jDanncis,  mast  be  co:«sidcred  as  a  powerful  testimonv .,  no-  only  to  tae 
sublimi'v,  ut  to  the  Divine  inspiration  of  the  sacrod  writings. 

"  I  have,"  stivs  he,  "  regularly  and  attentively  read  these  Holy  Scrip- 
tures; ami  I  a ai  of  opinion,  tUat  this  volume,  independently  of  us  Oi- 
Tinc  oVigin,  co?ita';»s  ni«'iv  true  sublimity,  morc  exquisite  beauty,  more 
pure  morality,  .nore  innr-rtarit  history,  and  finer  strains  both  of  poetry 
aad  olo'j  L+iC'in  be  colbc^ed  from  .  nooks,  in  what- 

ever atfu  or  la-ii^UHg-e  they  may,  h*ive  been  composed.0 


Put.  \cs.  9V 

ever  sold  my  instructions.  I  have  an  undeniable  evidence 
for  me  in  this  respect,  which  is  my  poverty.  I  am  always 
equally  ready  to  communicate  my  thoughts  both  to  the  rich 
and  the  poor,  and  to  give  them  opportunity  to  question  or 
answer  me.  I  lend  myself  to  every  one  who  is  desirous  of' 
becoming  virtuous  ;  and  it,  amongst  those  who  hear  mev 
then  are  any  that  prove  good  or  b  id,  neither  the  virtues 
of  the  one,  nor  the  vices  of  the  other,  to  which  i  have  not 
contributed,  are  to  be  ascribed  to  me.  My  whole  employ- 
nv-nt  is  to  counsel  the  young  and  the  ol.i  against  too  much 
love  for  the  body,  tor  riches,  and  all  oth  r  precarious  things, 
of  whatever  nature  they  be  ;  and  against  too  little  regard 
for  the  soul,  which  ought  to  be  the  obj  ct  of  their  auction. 
For  I  incessantly  ur^e  to  them,  (hat  virtue  does  not  pro- 
ceed from  riches;  bat  on  the  contrary,  riches  tro-n  vi  rue  ; 
and  that  .11  the  other  goods  of  human  life,  as  well  public  as 
private,  have  th«jir  source  in  the  same  principle. 

"  If  to  speak  in  this  manner  be  to  corrupt  youth,  I  con- 
fess, Athenians,  that  I  am  guilty,  and  deserve-  to  be  pun- 
ished. It  what  T  s  iv  IK  not  true,  it  is  most  easy  to  convict 
me  of  falsehood.  I  see  here  a  great  number  of  my  discipl  -s  : 
they  have  onlv  in  COM-  ivirwvjrd.  It  will  perhaps  be  s.ud, 
th  u  the  regard  and  veneration  due  to  a  ma-  e  who 
instructed  th  HI,  will  .prevent  them  irorn  declaring  «ig  inst 
me  :  but  th  -ir  fathers,  brothers,  and  unch-s,  cannot,  as  g  >**d 
relations  and  good  citizens,  themselves  for  not 

standing  for  h  to  demand  vt-i;  nst  the  conupter 

01  their  sons,  brothers,  and  ricp-K  vvs.     i  nv,  how;  v    r, 

the  persons  who  tuk*-*  upon  th    i»  .:.-,     ItKncr,  and  intetv^t 
themselves  in  the  success  oj  my  c  ;use.. 

tk  Pass  on  me  wh  a  senteiure  you  please,  Athenhns  ;  I 
can  iiriih-^r  r.  p  nt  nor  alt  r  ,oy  conduct,  i  must  not  .Jv.tn- 
.don  or  suspend  a  function  which  Ciod  ii^nsolf  has  imposvd 
on  me.  Non  he  h;is  charged  m-j  v»  uh  tine  car,  of  instruct- 
ing my  tVHovv  citizens.  If  afur  having  faithfully  k«-pt  all 
tn  [)osts  wUc'Fein  I  was  placed  In  ot»r  ^vtierais  ut  PoiiUcea, 
A  uphipohs,  and  Delium,  the  iVar  of  deatii  shoul  1  at  this 
time  nuilce  nic  abandon  that  in  which  the  divine  Providence 
his  placed  me,  by  commanding  UK*  to  pass  rn\  life  in  the 
study  of  philosophy,  forth-.-  itistrnction  of  ims<  ii  and  oth<  rs; 
tlm  would  be  a  moot  crmr:; ..»{  i  s>crtion  H  n  I  nake 

ine  highly  worthy  of  bein^  cited  beiore.  lias  u  ibuaai,  as  an 


English  Reader. 

i,  who  dors   not  i  in    the  gods.      Should 

o  ;jc(j«iit  m.  .  I  snouK'  not,  AihrnL.ns,  hcbit.tte 

•^ur  and  :  ;  !>ut  I  shall  choose  ratiu-r  to 

r  re- 

't-r   and    reprove 
i     ich.  ol 
• 

' 

i  .    . 
1  h. 
in  tli     i. 

i-o- 

id  drown*  d 
when,  up 

'  .t   and  c' 

it  then  that  has  { 
.    Do  not  t: 
it  ill,  i  :  i  i  ho 'it 

;i  u  ho  would 

lv  «-ppo>  :  iongst   us    JF 

c,  .m^l    who   IMIKM'  :    to   prtvr.-nt 

tlu  vii.huinn  ol  the  laus,  and  the  practice  oi  iniquity  in  a 
t,  vvil'  ne\er  do  so  lox,,*  xvitn  impunit\.  It  is  ab- 
necessary  tor  a  m«-n  o(  th^  disposition,  it  he  has 
an^  thoughts  or  living,  to  rmiain  in  a  private  station,  and 
Hevrr  to  have  any  share  in  puhlic  affairs. 

u  For  the  n  st,  Athenians,    it,   in  .\\\y  present  extreme 
deader,  i  do  not  imitate  tK-  behaviour  of  those,  u  ho,  u; 
1<  ss  emergences,  have  implored  and  supplicated  their  ju 
ts  with  tears,  and  h.ive  'wrought  -forth  their  (Children,  r 
tV'ns,  and    friends  ;    it  is  not    through   jiridf  and  obstinacy, 
m     com  \ou,   be  ,  >r  your  honour,  and 

for  that  oi  the  whole  city.     You  should  know,  that  th<-rf 


Public  Speeches.  99 

•are  amongst  our  citizens  those  who  do  not  record  d»-ath  as 
an  evil,  'md  who  give  th  it  nam-  '*\\\\  t-  itru-c  and  in- 
famy. At  mv  agi',  and  svith  the  reputation,  u  u  or  l-.Jse, 
which  I  tuve,  would  it  he  consistent  tor  me,  alt  r  A\  the 
lessors  I  have  given  upon  the  contempt  ot  death  «>  be 
afraid  of  it  myself,  and  ro  bilk-,  in  mv  Ust  aciiou,  all  the 
principles  and  sentiments  of  mv  past  lite  ? 

kC  But  without  speaking  ot  my  law,  union  I  should  ex- 
trem  ly  injure  «by  such  a  conduct,  i  do  not  chink  it  allow- 
able- to  entreat  a  judg< -,  nor  to  be  absolved  by  supplica^.Mns. 
He  ought  to  U  influenced  onls  by  reason  and  evidence. 
The- judge  docs  not  sit  upon  the  bench  10  show  i  vou*,  by 
violating  the  la\vs,  but  10  do  justice  in  eontovmiog  to  thtin. 
He  does  not  swear  to  discharge  with  impunity  whom  he 
pleases,  but  to  do  justice  where  it  is  due.  \Ve  ought  not, 
therefore,  to  accustom  vou  to  ptrjuly,  nor  you  to  sujfer 
yourselves  to  be  accustomed  to  it;  fort  in  so  doing,  both 
the  one  and  the  other  of  us  equally  injure  justice  and  reli- 
gion, and  both  are  criminals. 

u  Do  not,  therefore,  expect  from  me,  Athenians,  that  I 
should  have  .recourse  amongst  you  to  m^ans  which  I  be- 
lieve neither  honest  nor  lawful,  espec  ially  upon  this  occa- 
sion, wherein  I  am  accused  of  impiety  by  Melitus  :  far,  if 
I  should  influence  you  by  my  prayers,  and  thereby  induce 
you  to  violate  your  oaths,  it  would  be  undeniably  evident, 
that  I  teach  you  not  to  believe  in  the  gods  ;  and  even  in 
defending  and  justifying  myself,  should  furnish  my  adver- 
saries with  arms  against  me,  and  prove  that  I  believe  no 
divinity.  But  1  am  very  far  from  such  bad  thoughts  :  I  ana 
more  convinced  of  the  existence  of  God  than  my  ace  Asers 
are ;  and  so  convinced,  that  I  abandon  myself  to  God  and 
you,  that  you  may  judge  of  me  as  you  shall  deem  best  for 
yourselves  and  me." 

Socrates  pronounced  this  discourse  with  a  firm  and  in- 
trepid tone.  His  air,  his  action,  his  visage,  expressed  no- 
thing of  the  accused.  He  seemed  to  be  the  master  of  his 
judges,  from  the  greatness  of  soul  with  which  he  spoke, 
without  however,  losing  any  of  the  modesty  natural  to  him. 
But  how  slight  soever  the  proofs  were  against  him,  the  fac- 
tion was  powerful  enough  to  find  him  guilty.  There  was 
form  of  a  process  against  him0  and  his  irreligion  was 


10O  Sequel  to  the  Fnglish  Reader. 

the   pretence   upon      inch   i    u  ,.s  grounded  :   hut  his  c> 
Was  ceri.,i.i  \   a  concert,  d  thin-.     His  steady  is- 
COU-SL    oi    ,..  \  irtiK -t  wnich   had   made  him  in 

ca  is  appeal  singul  ir,  and  oppose  whatever  he  thought  il- 
Ifgvtl  or  u  just,  without  aw  regard  to  times  or  peisoi;-,  .ad 
pi»)cur;-cl  him  a  1  of  envy  and  ill-will.  Afur  hig 

Bent  n<  e,   lu    continued  with  the-  same  M  rent-  and   intrepid 
ith  which    he  ha  iiforccd  virtue,    ami    held 

t'  ri'its  in  as,  i.       When   i  '.'njh  then 

1  probit\,  his  flunks  fol- 

lo  :inui  d  io  vi-it  him  during  in;   interval 

brtwien  his  condemnation  and  his  death.       COLIVMI  in. 

si  ci  ION    11. —  i  he  Scytk  -  ^-/-.s  to  Ale\ntider^  on 

///.->  ^making  preparations  to  attack  their  country. 

If  your  per  .  .>ur  dcsiVes,   the 

world  cou.d  not  contain  you.  Yoiu  ri^-hr  h*»nd  would  touch 
ti^ie.  t-ast,  and  your  left  the  west  at  the  same  time  :  you  ^r  usp 
a'  more  than  .  ou  arc  equal  to.  From  Europe  you  reach 
ASM  ;  from  Asia  you  lay  hold  on  Europe.  And  if  you 
should  conquer  all  mankind  you  seeai  disposed  to  wa-^e 
war  with  w  1  snows,  with  rivers  and  wild 

and  to  attempt  to  subdue  nature.  But  have  you  considered 
the  usual  course  of  things  ?  have  you  reflected,  that  great 
tn-es  are  many  years  in  growing  to  their  height,  and  are 
cut  down  in  an  hour?  It  is  foolish  to  think  of  the  fruit on- 
Iv,  without  considering  the  height  you  have  to  climb  to 
come  at  it.  Take  ca  e,  lest,  while  you  strive  to  reach  the 
too,  you  fall  to  the  ground  with  the  branches  you  have  laid 
hold  on. 

Besides,  what  have  you  to  do  with  the  Scythians,  or  the 

Scythians  with  you  ?     We  have  never  invaded  Macedon  ; 

\vny  then  sht/uld   you  attack  Scythia  ?     You  pretend  to  be 

punisher  of  robbers  ;  and  are  \ourselfthe  general  rob- 

b  r  ol"  mankind.    You  have  taken  Lydia  ;  you  h^ve  seized 

Syria  ;  you  are  matter  of  Persia  ;  you   have  subdued  the 

Bactna  s,  and  attacked  India:  all  this  will  not  satisfy  you, 

. -ss  you    av  your  greedy  aad  insatiable   hands  upon  our 

.  ks  and  our   herds.      How   imprudent  is  your  conduct ! 

i  grasp  at  riches,  the  possession  of  which  only  increas- 

tncc'.      You  increase  your  hunger,   by   what 


Public  "Sp 

should  fproc*uce  satiety;  so1  -riiuV  ihe"  Vndfe  "  v'ou  nave, 
the  more  you  de*ne.  But  have  you  forgo  tivn  -iovv 
long  the  conquest  of  thi-  Bacti  imis  detained  you  ?  While 
you  were  subduing  them  the  Sogdians  revolted.  Your  vic- 
tories serve  to  no  other  purpose  than  to  find  you  employ- 
ment, by  producing  new  wars  ;  ior  the  business  of  ewry 
conquest  is  twofold,  to  win,  anil  to  preserve  Though  vou 
may  be  the  gre  itest  of  warriors,  you  must  expect  that  the 
nations  you  conquer  will  endeavour  to  shake  off  the  yoke 
as  fast  as  possible :  for  what  people  choose  to  be  under  fo- 
reign Dominion  ? 

If  you  will  cross  the  Tanais,  you  may  travel  over  Scy- 
thia,  and  observe  how  extensive  a  territory  we  inhabit :  but 
to  conquer  us  is  quite  another  business.  You  will  find  us, 
at  one  time,  too  nimble  for  your  pursuit  ;  and  at  another, 
when  you  think  we  are  tJc  )  far  enough  from  you,  you  will 
-h;ive  us  surprise  you  in  your  camp:  for  the  Scythians  at- 
tack with  no  less  vigour  than  they  fly.  It  will,  therefore, 
be  your  wisdom  to  keep  with  strict  attention  what  you  have 
gained  :' catching  at  more  you  may  lose  what  you  have.  We 
have  a  proverbial  saying  in  Scythia,  That  Fortune  has  no 
fert,  and  is  furnished  only  with  hands  to  distribute  hei  ca- 
pricious favours,  and  with  fins  to  elude  the  grasp  of  those 
to  whom  she  has  been  bountiful. — You  profess  yourself  to 
be  a  god,  the  sun  of  Jupiter  Ammon:  it  suits  the  chvirac- 
UT  low  favours  on  mortals,  not  to  deprive 

,V  have.     But  it  \ou  :rc-  no  god,  reflect  on 
ndition  of'humafiity.   You  will  thus  sr.  w 
n,  than  by  dwelling  on   tho  ;e  subj<  cts  which 
.(fed  up  your  pride,  and  made  you  forget  yourself, 
how  little  you  are  .likely  to  gain  by  attempting 
conquest  of  Scythia.      On  the  other  hand,  you  ma\ ,  if 
you  please,  have  in  us  a  valuable  alliance.      We  com  in  md 
the  borders  both  of   Europe  and  Asia.      There  is  nothing 
between  us  and  Bactria  but  the  river   Fanais  ;  and  o?ir  :vr- 
ritory  extends   to   Thrace,  which,  as  we  have   heard^       >r~ 
*  on   M  icedon.     If  you  decline  attacking  us  in  a  hostile 
manner,  you  may  have  our  friendship.   Nations  which  have 
never  been  ar  war  are  on  an  equal  footing  ;  but  it  is  i  ^  .in 
that  confidence  is  reposed   in  a   conquered  pec^)le.       Hi    '"e 
cm  be  no  siricer.-*  iVLnclship  L,  iw^-n  th.  oppressors  and  the 
oppressed :  even  in  peace,  the  latter  think  themselves  curi- 


102  Sryitel  to  the  English  Reader. 

tied  to  the  ri^his  »>f  war  against  the  former.  We  will,  ii 
you  ihink  good,  enter  into  a  treaty  with  you,  according  to 
our  manner,  which  is  not  by  signing,  sealing,  and  taku-.g 
the  gods  to  witness,  as  is  the  Grecian  custom  ;  but  bs  do- 
ing actual  services.  The  Scythians  are  not  used  to  promise, 

,  but  ptrform  without  promising.  And  they  think  an  appeal 
t  >  tn  god*  MIJK  i  fluous  ;  tor  that  those  who  have  no  regard 

'for  the  esteem  of  men  will  not  hesitate  to  offend  the  gods 
by  p,  ijurv. — You  may  therefore  consider  with  yourself, 
whether  you  \vould  choose  to  have  for  allies  or  for  enemies, 
a  people  of  such  a  character,  and  so  situated  as  to  have  it 
in  'h  ir  uou  er  either  to  serve  you  or  to  annoy  you,  accord- 
ing as  you  treat  them.  q,,  CURTIUS. 

SECTION  in. — Speech  of  the  Earl  of  Chatham,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  employing  Indians  to  fight  against  the  Amen 

I  CANNOT,  my  lords,  1  will  not,  join  in  congratulation  on 
in  stortune  and  disgrace.  This  my  lords,  is  a  perilous  and 
tremendous  moment:  it  is  not  a  time  for  adulation  ;  the 
smoothness  of  flattery  cannot  save  us  in  this  rugged  and 
auiul  crisis.  It  is  now  necessary  to  instruct  the  throne  in 
the  language  of  truth.  \Ve  must,  if  possible,  dispel  the  de- 
lusion and  darkness  which  envelop  it  ;  and  display,  in  its 
full  danger  and  genuine  colours,  the  rum  which  is  brought 
to  our  doors.  Can  ministers  still  presume  to  expect  sup- 
port in  their  infatuation  ?  Can  parliament  be  so  dead  to  its 
dignity  and  duty,  as  to  give  their  support  to  measures  thus 
obtruded  and  forced  upon  tru  m  f  measures,  my  lords,  which 
have  reduced  this  late  flourishing  empire  to  scorn  and  con- 
t.  mpi!  but  yesterday,  and  England  might  have  stood 
against  the  world  ;  now,  none  so  poor  as  to  do  her  rever- 
ence !  The  people,  whom  we  at  first  despised  as  rebels,  but 
whom  we  now  acknowledge  as  enemies,  are  abetted  against 
us,  supplied  with  every  military  store,  their  interest  con- 
sulted, and  their  ambassadors  entertained  by  our  inveterate 
enemy; — and  ministers  do  not,  and  dare  not,  interpose 
with  dignity  or  effect.  The  desperate  state  oi  our  army 
abroad  is  in  part  known.  No  man  more  highl)  esteems 
and  honours  the  English  troops  than  1  do :  I  know  their 
virtues  and  their  valour:  I  know  they  <  an  achieve  any 
thin^  but  impossibilities;  ami  1  know  that  the  conquest  of 
English  America  is  an  impossibility.  You  cannot,  my  lords. 


Public  Speeches.  1$?, 

you  cannot  conquer  America.  What  is  your  present  situa- 
tion there  ?  We  do  not  know  the  worst :  but  we  know  that 
in  three  campaigns  we  have  clone  nothing,  and  suffered 
much.  You  may  swell  every  expense,  accumulate  every  as 
sistance,  and  extend  your  trafic  to  the  shambles  of  every 
German  despot;  your  attempts  will  be  forever  vain  and 
impotent; — doubly  so,  indeed,  from  this  mercenary  aid  on 
which  you  rely ;  for  it  irritates,  to  an  incurable  resentment, 
the  minds  of  your  adversaries,  to  overrun  them  with  the 
mercenary  sons  of  rapine  and  plunder,  devoting  them  and 
their  possessions  to  the  rapacity  of  hireling  cruelty. 

But,  my  lords,  who  is  the  man,  that,  in  Addition  to  the 
disgrace  and  mischief's  of  the  war,  has  dared  to  authorise 
and  associate  to  our  arms,  the  tomohawk  and  scalping  knife 
of  the  savage  ? — to  call  into  civilized  alliance,  the  wild  and 
inhuman  inhabitants  of  the  woods .?— to  dele-gate  to  the 
merciless  Indian,  the  defence  of  disputed  rights,  and  to 

f  wage  the  horrors  of  his  barbarous  war  against  our  bre- 
thren? My  lords,  these  enormities  cr\  aloud  for  redress 

,  and  punishment.  But,  my  lords,  tlrs  barbarous  measure 
has  been  defended,  not  only  on  the  principles  of  policy  and 
necessity,  but  also  on  those  of  morality ;  "  for  it  is  perfect- 
ly allowable,"  says  Lord  Suffolk,  4I>  to  use  all  the  means 
which  God  and  nature  hare  put  into  our  hands."  I  am  as- 
tonished, I  am  shocked,  to  hear  such  principles  confessed; 
to  hear  them  avowed  in  this  house,  or  in  this  country.  My 
lords,  I  did  not  intend  to  encroach  so  much  on  your  atten- 
tion ;  but  I  cannot  repress  my  indignation — I  feel  myself 
impelled  to  speak.  My  lords,  we  are  called  upon  as  mem- 
bers of  this  house,  as  men,  as  Christians,  to  protest  against 
such  horrible  barbarity  ! — u  That  God  and  nature  have  put 
into  our  hands!"  What  ideas  of  God  and  nature,  that  no- 
bl*  lord  may  entertain,  I  know  not  ;  but  I  know,  that  such 
detestable  principles  are  equally  abhorrent  to  religion  and 
humanity.  What !  to  attribute  the  sacred  sanction  of  God 
and  nature  to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian  scalping  knife  ! 
to  the  savage,  torturing  and  murdering  his  unhappy  vic- 
tims! Such  notions  shock  every  precept  of  morality,  every 
feeling  oi  humanity,  every  sentiment  of  honour.  These 
abominable  principles,  and  this  more  abominable  avowal  of 
them,  demand  the  most  decisive  indignation.  1  call  upon 


104  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

that  right  rcvcrcntl,  and  this  most  learned  Bench,  to  vindi- 
cate the  idigion  o!  their  G>d,  to  supj.-ort  the  justice  of 
their  countrs.  I  cull  upon  Lie  bishops  10  interpose  the  un- 
sullied sanctity  oi  tin  ir  \\\\\\\ — upon  the  judges  to  interpose 
the  punt\  of  their  ermine,  to  save  us  hum  this  pollution. 
I  call  upon  the  honour  of  your  loidships,  to  reverence  the 
,  dignity  of your  ancestors,  and  to  maintain  your  own.  I  call 
upon  the  spirit  and  lunnaniix  of  my  country,  to  vindicate 
the  national  rl;M.>r:<  r.  I  invoke  the  genius  of  the  const$tu- 
tion.  From  the  tapestry  that  adorns  these  walls,  the  im- 
mortal ancestor  oi  this  noble  lord  frowns  with  indignation 
at  the  disgrace  of  his  country.  In  vain  did  he  defend  the 
liberty,  and  establish  the  n  ligion  of  Britain,  against  the  ty- 
rann>  of  Rome,  if  these  worst  than  popish  cruelties  and  in- 
quisitorial practices,  are  endured  among  us.  1\>  si  nd,  forth 
the  merciless  In-tian,  thirsting  for  blood!  against  u'hom  ? 
*—your  protestant  biethrcn! — to  lay  waste  their  country,  to 
desolate-  tluir  dwellings,  and.  extirpate  their  race  and  name, 
by  the  aid  and  instrumentality  of  these  ungovernable  sa- 
vages '.—Spain  can  no  longer  boast  pre  «Mi»in-.  nee  in  barba- 
rity. She  -unud  he rpv.lt  with  blood-hounds  10  extirpate  the 
wretched  natives  of  Mexico  ;  we,  more  ruthless,  loose  those 
brutal  warriors  against  our  countrymen  in  America,  en- 
deared to  u*  by  tviry  tie  that  can  smctify  humanity.  I  so- 
lemnly call  upon  your  lordships,  and  upon  every  order  of 
men  in  the  st -te,  to  stamp  upon  this  infamous  procedure 
thvj  indelible  stigma  of  the  public  abhorrence.  More  parti- 
cularlv,  I  call  upon  the  venerable  prelates  of  our  religion, 
to  do  a\vay  this  iniquity  ;  let  them  perform  a  lustration  to 
purify  the  country  from  this  deep  and  deadly  sin. 

Mv  lords,  I  am  old  and  weak,  and  at  present  unable  to 
say  more  ;  but  my  feelings  and  indignation  were  too  strong 
to  have  allowed  me  to  say  l.-ss.  1  could  not  have  slept  this 
night  in  my  bed,  nor  even  reposed  my  head  upon  my  pil- 
low, without  giving  vent  to  my  steadfast  abhorrence  of 
such  Clio*  ui ous  and  preposterous  principles. 


CHAPTER  VIII.— PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 

SKCTION  i. —  'The  voyage  of  Life  ;  an  allegory. 
"  LIFE,''  says  Seneca,  u  is  a  voyage,  in  the  progress  of 
which  we  are  perpetually  changing  our  scenes.     We  first 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  105 

leave  childhood  behind  us,  then  youth,  then  the  years  of 
ripened  manhood,  then  the  better  or  more  pleasing  part  of 
oil  age."  The  perusal  of  this  passage  having  excited  in  me 
a  train  of  reflections  on  the  state  of  man,  the  incessant  fluc- 
tuation of  his  wishes,  the  gradual  cbmge  of  his  disposition 
to  all  external  objects,  and  the  thoughtlessness  with  which 
he  floats  along  the  stream  of  time,  I  sunk  into  a  slumber 
amidst  my  meditations,  and,  on  a  sudden,  found  my  ears 
filled  with  the  tumult  of  labour,  the  shouts  of  alacrity,  the 
shrieks  of  alarm,  the  whistle  of  winds,  and  the  dash  of  wa- 
ters. My  astonishment  for  a  time  repressed  my  curiosity  ; 
but  soon  recovering  myself  so  far  as  to  inquire  whither  we 
were  going,  and  what  was  the  cause  of  such  clamour  and 
confusion,  I  was  told  that  we  were  launching  out  into  the 
ocean  of  life ;  that  we  had  already  passed  the  straits  of  In- 
fancy, in  which  multitudes  had  perished,  some  by  the  weak- 
ness and  fragility  of  their  vessels,  and  more  by  the  folly, 
perverseness,  or  negligence  of  those  who  undertook  to 
steer  them  ;  and  that  we  were  now  on  the  main  sea,  aban- 
doned to  the  winds  and  billows,  without  any  other  means 
of  security  than  the  care  of  the  pilot,  whom  it  was  always 
in  our  power  to  choose,  among  great  numbers  that  offered 
their  direction  and  assistance* 

I  then  looked  round  with  anxious  eagerness  :  and,  first 
turning  my  eyes  behind  me,  saw  a  stream  flowing  through 
flowery  islands,  which  ev<rry  one  that  sailed  along  seemed 
to  behold  with  pleasure  ;  but  no  sooner  touched  them,  than 
the  current,  which,  though  not  noisy  or  turbulent,  was  yet 
irresistible,  bore  him  away.  Beyond  thrse  islands,  all  was 
larkness  ;  nor  could  any  of  the  passengers  describe  the 
shore  at  which  he  first  embarked. 

Before  me,  and  on  each  side  was  an'expanse  of  waters 

violently  agitated,  and  covered  with   so  thick  a  mist,  thifc 

the  most  perspicacious  eyes  could  see  but  a  little  way.    It 

appeared  to  be  full  of  rocks  and  whirlpools;  for  many  sunk 

unexpectedly  while   they  were  courting   the   gale  with  lull 

sails,  and  insulting  those  whom  they  had  left  behind       So 

numerous,  indeed,  were  the  dangers,  and  so  thick  the  dark- 

:•,  that  no  caution  could  confer  security.   Y-  t  there  were 

iy,    who,   by  false  intelligence  betraved  their  followers 

into  whirlpools,   or  by  violence   pushed  those  whom  they 

."ol  in  their  way  against  tne  rocks. 


106  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

The  current  was  invariable  and  insurmountable  : 
though  it  was  imposs^e^to  sail  against  it,  or  to  return  to 
the  place  that  wiff  oiSHpssed,  yet  it  was  not  so  violent  as 
to  allow  no  opportunities  for  dexterity  or  courage  ;  since, 
though  none  could  retreat  hack  from  danger,  yet  they 
might  often  avoid  it  by  oblique  direction. 

It  was,  however,  not  very  common  to  steer  with  much 
care  or  prudence  ;  lor,  by  some  universal  inlatuatiou,  every 
man  appear:'!  to  think  himself  safe,  though  he  saw  his  con- 
sorts every  moment  sinking  round  him  ;  imd  no  sooner  had 
the  waxes  closed  over  tin  m,  than  their  fate  and  their  nils- 
conduct  were  forgotten  ;  the  voyage  was  pursued  with  the 
same  jocund  confidence  ;  every  man  congratulating  himself 
upon  the  soundness  of  his  vessel,  and  believed  himst.H  ; 
to  stem  the  whirlpool  in  which  his  friend  was  sualimved, 
W  glide  over  the  rocks  on  which  he  was  dashed:  nor  • 
it  olten  observ'.  that  the  sight  of  a  wreck  made  any  man 
change  his  course.  If  he  turned  aside  tor  a  moment,  he 
.soon  forgot  the  rudder,  and  left  himself  again  to  the  dispo- 
sal of  chance. 

This  negligence  c?!rl  not  proceed  from  indifference,  or 
•ii  weariness  of  their  present  condition;  lor  not  one  of 
those  who  thus  rushed  upon  destruction,  failed,  when  he 
was  sinking,  to  call  loud  y  upon  his  associates  for  that  help 
which  could  not  now  be  given  him  :  and  many  spent  their 
last  moments  in  cautioning  others  against  the  folly  by 
which  they  were  intercepted  in  the  midst  of  their  course. 
Their  benevolence  was  sometimes  praised,  but  their  admo- 
nitions were  unregarded. 

The  vessels  in  which  we  had  embarked,  being  confess- 
edly unequal  to  the  turbulence  of  the  stream  of  life,  were 
visibly  impaired  in  the  course  of  the  voyage,  so  that  every 
passenger  was  certain,  that  how  long  soever  he  might,  by 
iavourable  accidents,  or  by  incessant  vigilance,  be  preserv- 
ed, he  must  sink  at  last. 

This  necessity  of  perishing  might  have  been  expected  to 
sadden  the  gay,  and  intimidate  the  daring  ;  at  least  to  keep 
the  melancholy  and  timorous  in  perpetual  torments,  and 
hinder  them  from  any  enjoyment  of  the  varieties  and  gra- 
tifications which  nature  offered  them  as  the  solace  of  t:  eic 
labours ;  yet  in  effect  none  seemed  less  to  expect  dcstrus- 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  10? 

tion  than  those  to  whom  it  was  most  dreadful  ;  they  all  had 
the  art  of  concealing  their  danger  from  themselves  ;  and 
those  who  knew  their  in.ihility  to  bear  the  sight  of  the  ter- 
rors that  embarrassed  their  way,  took  care  never  to  look 
forward;  but  found  SOUK*  amusement  of  the  present  mo- 
ment, and  generally  entertained  themselves  by  pi  tv  ing  with 
Hope,  who  was  the  constant  associate  ot  the  voyage  ol  L'ttr. 

Yet  all  that  Hope  ventured  to  promise,  evinto  those 
whom  she  favoured  most,  was,  not  that  they  should  escap  a 
but  that  they  should  sink  last ;  and  with  this  promise  every 
one  was  satisfied,  though  he  laughed  at  the  rest  for  seem- 
ing to  believe  it.  Hope,  indeed,  apparently  mocked  the  cre- 
dulity of  her  companions  ;  for,  in  proportion  as  their  ves- 
stls  grew  leaky,  she  redoubled  her  assurances  of  sat\  tv  ; 
and  none  were  more  busy  in  making  provisions  for  a  long 
vo\  age,  than  they  whom  all  hut  themselves  saw  likely  to 
perish  soon  by  irreparable  dtcay. 

In  the  midst  of  the  current  of  Life,  was  the  gulf  of  In- 
tcmperance,  a  dreadful  whirlpool,  interspersed  wiih  rocks, 
of  which  the  pointed  crags  were  concealed  under  water, 
and  thv  tops  covered  with  herbage,  on  which  Ease  spread 
couches  of  itpose;  arid  with  shad-  s,  where  pleasure  war- 
bled the  sonv;  of  invitation.  Within  sight  of  these  rocks,  11 
tvho  sVilrd  on  the  ocean  of  Lite  must  necessarily  pass.  Rea- 
son indeed  was  alwavs  at  hand,  to  steer  the  passengers 
through  a  narrow  outlet,  by  which  they  might  escape  ;  but 
\^ry  tew  could,  by  her  entn  ;ities  or  remonstrances,  be  in- 
duced to  put  the  rudder  into  h  r  hand,  without  stipulating 
that  she  should  approach  so  near  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  th  tt 
they  might  solace  themselws  with  a  short  enjoyment  of  that 
deliciou^  region,  after  which  they  always  determined  u 
pursue  iheir  course  without  any  otht  r  deviation. 

Reason  was  too  of  en  prevailed  upon  so  iar  by  thrse  pro. 
mists,  as  to  venture  her  charge  within  the  eddy  of  the  ^nlf 
of  intemperance,  wh<  re,  indeed,  the  circumvolution  v\v;i$ 
%v  ak,  but  yet  int-.-rrupted  tru  course  of  tn<-  v  ssd,  and  dre^v 
it,  by  insensible  rotations,  touar  s  th.  centre.  She  then  te- 
penred  hrr  teim-rity,  and  with  all  her  force  endeavoured  to 
retre:,t  ;  but  th»-  draught  o<  the-  gulf  was  gener '11\  too 
sir-.n^  t<>  be  overcorm  ;  and  the  pass  ng  r,  having  dan.  I 
m  circles  wuh  a  pUabing  in  I  ^idd)  vciutity,  \v*«s 


108  Sequel  to  the  English 

overwhelmed  and  lost.  Those  few  whom  Reason  vas  aMe 
to  xtricate,  generally  suffered  so  many  shoiks  upon  the 
points  which  shot  out  from  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that  they 
were  unable  to  continue  their  course  with  the  same  strength 
and  facility  as  before  ;  but  floated  along  timorously  and  fee- 
bly, endangered  by  every  breeze,  and  shattered  by  every 
ruffle  of  the  water,  till  they  sunk,  by  slow  degrees,  after 
long  struggles,  and  innumerable  expedients,  always  repin- 
ing at  thc-ir  own  folly,  and  warning  others  against  the  first 
approach  towards  the  gulf  of  Intemperance. 

There  were  artists  who  professed  to  repair  the  breaches, 
a  d  stop  the  leaks,  of  the  vessels  which  had  been  shattered 
on  the  rocks  of  Pleasure.  Many  appeared  to  have  great 
confidence  in  their  skill  ;  and  some,  indeed,  were  preserv- 
ed by  it  from  sinking,  who  had  received  only  a  single  blow: 
but  I  remarked  that  few  vessels  lasted  long  which  had  beeix 
much  repaired  ;  nor  was  it  found  that  the  artists  themselves 
continued  afloat  longer  than  those  who  had  least  of  their 
assistance. 

The  only  advantage  which,  in  the  voyage  of  Life,  the 
cautious  had  above  the  negligent,  was,  that  they  sunk  later,. 
mo; -e  suddenly  ;  fo»  they  passed  forward  till  they  had 
3otu«  linns  seen  all  those  in  whose  co.npany  they  had  is- 
3u  ci  from  the  straits  of  Infancy,  perish  in  the  way,  and  at 
last  were  overset  by  a  cross  breeze,  without  the  toil  ot  re- 
jisuince,  or  the  anguish  of  expectation.  But  such  as  had 
ofun  fallen  against  the  rocks  ot  Pleasure,  commonly  sub- 
bv  s .  nsible  decrees;  contended  long  with  the  en- 
'ing  waiers  ;  .ml  harassed  themselves  by  labours  that 
t  ly  iiopv  hersi  If  could  flatter  with  success. 
\s  1  was  looking  upon  the  various  fates  of  the  multitude 
about  mr,  I  was  sucl.  enlv  alarmed  with  an  admonition 
from  some  unknown  pou  r  :  "  (iazt  not  idly  upon  oth<  rs 
T;!K  !•  thou  tiivs-  If  art  sinking.  Wh«  nee  is  this  thoughtless 
tranquility,  wh-n  thou  and  they  are  equally  endangered  r" 
I  looked,  and  seeing  the  gulf  of  Intemperance  before  me, 
started  and  awaked.  I>K.  JOHNSON. 

SECTION  ii  — The  vanity  of  those  pursuits  which  have  hu- 
man approbation  for  their  chief  object. 
Among  the  emirs  and  viziers,  th^  s   ns  oi  valour  and  of 
,  that  sunU  at  the  corners  of  iht;  inaian 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  109 

os«;st  the  councils,  or  conduct  the  wars  of  the  posterity  of 
Timur,  the  first  place  was  loner  field  by  Morad,  the  son  of 
Hanuth.  Morad  having  signalized  himself  in  many  battles 
and  sieges,  was  rewarded  \vit-.  the  government  of  a  pro- 
vince, from  which  the  fame  of  his  wisdom  and  moderation 
was  wafted  to  the  pinnacles  of  Agra,  by  the  pnwers  of 
those  whom  his  administration  made  happy.  The  ern- 
pcror  called  him  into  his  presence,  and  gave  into  his  h-uid 
the  keys  of  riches,  and  the  sabre  of  common  .  The  voice 
of  Morad  was  heard  from  the  clifYs  of  Taurus  to  the  Indi- 
an ocean  :  every  tongue  faltered  in  his  presence,  and  every 
eye  was  cast  do  n  before  him. 

Morad  lived  many  years  in  prosperity  :  every  day  in- 
creased his  wealth,  and  extended  his  influence.  The  stages 
repeated  his  maxims  ;  the  captains  of  thousands  waited  his 
commands.  Competition  withdrew  into  th«  cavern  of  envv, 
and  discontent  trembled  at  her  own  murmurs.  But  human 
greatness  is  shorf  and  transitory,  as  the  odour  of  incense  in 
the  fire  The  sun  grrw  weary  of  gilding  the  palaces  of  Mo- 
rad ;  th»-  clouds  of  sorrow  gathered  round  his  head  ;  and 
the  tempest  of  hatred  roared  about  his  dwelling. 

Mor  ui  saw  ruin  hastily  approaching.  The  first  that  for- 
sook him  were  his  poet-*.  Their  ex  >  nple  was  followed  by 
all  those  whom  he  had  rewarded  for  contributing  to  his 
pleasures  ;  and  only  a  few  whose  virtue  had  entitled  the:n» 
to  f.tvour,  were  now  to  be  seen  in  his  hall  or  chambers. 
tic-  felt  his  danger,  and  prostrated  himself  at  the  foot  of 
thi.  throne.  His  accusers  were  confident  and  loud  ;  his 
Inends  stood  contented  with  frigid  neutrality  ;  and  the  voice 
ot  truth  was  overborn^  In  clamour.  He  was  divested  of  his 
power,  deprived  of  hi«  acquisitions  and  condemned  to  pass 
the  rest  of  his  life  on  ms  ru  ndit  ir\  estate. 

Morad  hnd  been 'so  long  accustomed  to  crowds  and  bu- 
sinrss,  supplicants  and  flattery,  that  he  knc-v  not  how  <o  fill 
up  his  hours  in  solitude,  lie  saw,  vviih  regret,  the  sunrise 
to  force  on  his  eve  a  new  day  for  which  he  had  no  use  ; 
and  envied  the  savag'  th  tc  .aiiders  in  the  descr%  because 
he  has  no  time  v-.icam  f  o-n  the  calls  of  nature,  but  is  al- 
\vavs  chasing  his  pre\-,  or  leeping  in  his  den. 

His  discontent  in  time  vitiated  his  constitution,  and  a 
slow  disease  seized  upon  him.  Hen.  fused  physic,  IK  g'ect- 
vU  exercise,  ciua  ia^  cio»vu  on  tiiis  coach  pecviba  aad  rc»t- 


I 

flO  Si'yu'.'l  to  the  English  Reader. 

less,  rather  a  ("raid  to  die,  than  desirous  to  live,  His  domes- 
tic^, for  a  lime,  redoubled  their  assiduries  ;  but  finding  tti.it 
no  officious-.-  I  sooth,  n  )r  t  x  »aness  .satisfy,  they 

soon  gave  w.iv  to  nee.  and   sloth  ;   and   he  that  once 

commanded  n  aions,  often  biQg'uishtd  in  his  chamber  with- 
out ;,n  attendant. 

In  this  melancholy  state,  he  commanded  messengers  to 
re.  11  his  eldest  son,  Abouxaid,  from  the  army.  Abouzaid 
>v  ;s  alarmed  at  the  ;»ccoiirn  oi  his  lather's  sickness  ;  and 
hast-  d,  by  long  journeys,  to  his  phce  oi  residence.  IVlorad 
\v;.->  yet  l.\r<  It  his  strength  retusi  at  the  embraces 

of  his  son  :    'hm  com.n  imii;»;;    him  '.o  sit  down  at  his  bed- 
si' t   ,  u  Abouzai  .her  has  no  more  to  hope 
or  ie.ir  I'M mi  the  inh   '                 I  th     earth,  the  cold  hand  of 
ang'-l   <>(  n,  ..lui   the   voracioua 
h'»\vlii/g  lor  his  prey,    ll   ar  therelore  the  precepts 
ncient  ex|                     :        tot   inv   last   instructions   issue 
ii  in  vain.      T!i..a  hast  seen  me  happy  and  calamitous  : 
thou  hast  beheld  my  <  xiit..iiun  and  m\   iai).     My  power  is 
In  the  h.«nds  of  n>v  tnemivH.  ;    m\  iieasuits  have  rewarded 
n»y  Accusers                    n-iuritancc  the  clemency  of  the  em- 
,    i;id  m\  \\isdom  his  anger  could  not  takt 
liine  e\rs  around  thei-  :  uhaUver  thou  behold- 
est,  \vill,  in  a   tew    houis   l)e  thnp   :   :i|;;<K    thine  ear  to  my 
,  and  tin.  ae  possessions  will  promote  thy  happimss. 
not   t')   public    honours  ;    enter   not   the    palaces   of 
k'ngs  ;  thy  \vealth  will  set  thee  a  K,V,  insult  ;  let  thy  mode- 
ration keep  thee  below  envy.    C  jiitt.ni  th\stif  with  private 
di^n'm  ;  diffuse   th\   riches  among     by  friends  ;   let  every 
day  extend  thy  beneficence.;  and  stiff,  r  not  thy  heart  to  be 
at  Vest    till  fhnu  art  lov  cd   b\   ali  to  whom  th<m  art  known, 
lit  the  hei   ht  of  m\   power,  1  said  to  defamation,  Who  \\iil 
hf.u  thee  ?  and  to  artific*-,  U'hat  c  .nst  ihou  perform  ?  But, 
nn  son,  despls'     not  thou   the   notice   of  the  weakest:   re- 
wem'.er  that  venom  supplies  the  want  of  strength  ;  and  that 
th     b'>n  ma\   pt'rish  b\   the  punciure  of  an  asp." 

Moiucl  <rxpirrd  in  a  tew  hours.  A!>ouzaid,  after  the 
n>onU"i  ot  niouniiny,  determinvtl  to  regular,  h  s  conduct 
h\  his  father's  'pr.  cepts  ;  an  i  cultiva-t--  th-  love  of  mankind 
bv  ver\  art  o'  kindness  aii<i  en'U:ar.n.rnt.  He  wiselx  con- 
5  ',  r  if^tteii  tic  ti  pi-in.-s  -  :is  hrst  •<>  b.  s  cu 

aad  ihdt  uoac  have  so  aiucii  ^o,»ci  oi  doin^  gooa  ui 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  Ill 

as  those  who  arepresent  in  the  hour  of  negligence,  hear  the 
bursts  of  thoughtless  merriment,  and  observe  the  starts  of 
unguarded  passion.  He  therefore  augmented  the  pay  of  all 
his  attendants  ;  and  requited  every  exertion  of  uncommon 
diligence  by  supernumerary  gratuities.  While  he  congratu- 
lated himself  upon  the  fidelity  and  affection  of  his  family,  he 
was  in  the  night  alarmed  with  robbers  ;  who  being  pursued 
and  taken,  declared,  that  they  had  been  admitted  by  one  of 
his  servants.  The  servant  immediately  confessed,  that  he 
unbarred  the  door,  because  another,  not  more  worthy  of 
confidence,  was  entrusted  with  the  keys, 

Abouzaid  was  thus  convinced,  that  i  dependant  could 
not  easily  be  made  a  friend  ;  and  that  while  many  were 
soliciting  for  the  first  rank  of  favour,  all  those  would  be 
alienated  whom  he  disappointed.  He  therefore  resolved  to 
associate  with  a  few  equal  companions  selected  from  among 
the  chief  men  of  the  province.  With  these  he  lived  happi- 
ly for  a  time,  till  familiantv  set  them  free  from  restraint, 
and  every  man  thought  himself  at  liberty  to  indulge  his 
own  caprice,  and  advance  his  own  opinions.  They  then 
disturbed  each  other  with  contrariety  of  inclinations,  and 
difference  of  sentiments;  and  -Abouzuid  was  necessitated 
to  offend  one  party  by  concurrence,  or  both  by  indifftrence. 

He  afterwards  determined  to  avoid  a  close  union  with 
beings  so  discordant  in  their  nature,  and  to  diffuse  himself 
in  a  larger  circle.  He  practised  the  smile  of  universal  courr 
tesy  ;  and  invited  all  to  his  table,  but  admitted  none  to  his 
retirements.  Many  who  had  been  rt  j<  cted  in  his  choice  of 
friendship,  now  refused  to  accept  his  acquaintance,  and  of 
those  whom  plenty  and  magnificence  drew  to  his  table-,  eve- 
ry one  pressed  forward  toward  intimacy,  thought  himself 
overlooked  in  the  crowd,  and  murmim-d,  because  he  was 
not  distinguished  above  the  rest.  Bv  degrees,  all  made  ad- 
vances, and  all  resented  repulse.  The  table  was  then  co- 
vered with  delicacies  in  vain  ;  the  music  sounded  in  empty 
rooms  ;  and  Abouzaid  \vm  left  to  form,  in  solitude,  some- 
new  scheme  of  pleasure  or  security. 

Resolving  now  to  try  the  force  of  gratitude,  he  inquired 
for  men  of  science,  whose  merit  was  obscured  by  poverty. 
His  house  was  soon  crowded  with  poets,  sculptors,  paint- 
ers, and  designers,  who  -wantoned  in  unexperienced  plenty ; 


Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

and  employed  their  powers  in  celebrating  their  patron.  But 
in  a  short  time  they  forgot  the  distress' irom  which  they 
had  been  rescuvd  ;  :ind  began  to  consich.r  their  deliverer  as 
a  wretch  of*  narrow  ,  who  was  growing  great  by 

work-;  which  he  coul  •  nut  perform,  and  whom  the}  over- 
paid by  condescendm  ;  to  accept  his  bounties.  Abouziid 
heatd  tiuir  iiiurm  trs,  and  dismissed  them  ;  and  from  that 
hour  continued  blind  to  colours,  and  d<  af  to  panegyric. 

As  the  sons  of  art  departed,  muttering  threats  or  ptrpe- 
tuil  infamy,  Abouzaid,  who  stood  at  the  gate,  called  to 
him  Hamet  iru  port.  u  II  ,im  t,"  said  he,  "thy  inor.-titude 
has  put  an  en-1  to  my  hopes  anil  txperi-.ne-nts.  I  have  now 
learned  the  vanity  of  those  labours  that  wish  to  be  reward- 
ed  by  human  benevolence.  1  shall  hencefoith  do  good,  and 
avoid  evil,  without  respect  to  the  opinion  of  men  ;  and  re- 
solve to  solicit  only  the  approbation  of  that  Iking,  whom 
alone  we  are  sure  to  please  by  endeavouring  to  please 
him."  DR.  JOHNSON. 

SUCTION  in. —  The  folly  and  misery  of  idleness. 

THE  idle  man  lives  riot  to  himself,  with  any  more  advan* 
tage  than  he  fives  to  the  world.  It  is  indeed  on  a  supposi- 
tion entirely  opposite,  that  persons -of  this  character  pro- 
ceed. They  imagine  that,  how  deficient  soever  they  may 
be  in  point  of  duty,  they  at  le.tst  consult  their  own  satisfac- 
tion. They  leave  to  others  the  dru  ig<  ry  of  life  ;  and  be* 
take  themselves,  as  they  think,  to  the  quarter  of  enjoyment 
and  ease.  Now,  in  contradiction  to  this,  I  assert,  and  hope 
to  prove,  that  the  idle  man,  first,  shuts  the  door  against  all 
improvement ;  n^xr,  that  he  opens  it  wide  to  every  destruc- 
tive folly  ;  and  lasth  ,  that  he  eXelucies  himself  from  the 
true  enjoyment  of  pleasure. 

First,  He  shuts  the  door  against  improvement  of  every 
kind,  whether  of  mind,  body,  or  fortune.  The  law  of  our 
nature,  the.  condition  under  wJrich  we4  were  placed  from 
our  birth,  is,  that  nothing  goocft>r  great  is  to  be  acquired, 
without  toil  and  industry.  A  price  is  appointed  by  Provi- 
dence to  be  paid  for  ever\  thing;  and  the  price  of  improve- 
ment, is  labour.  Industry  may,  indeed,  be  sometimes  dis- 
appointed. The  race  may  not  always  be  to  the  swift,  nor 
'ic  to  the  biroug.  But,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  certain 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  113 

that,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  without  strength,  the 
buttle  cannot  be  gained  ;  without  s wit  ness,  the  r.icx  cannot 
be  run  with  success.  If  we  consult  either  the  improvement 
of  the  mind,  or  the  health  oi  the  body,  it  is  wdl  known  that 
exercise  is  the  great  instrument  of  promoting  both,  bioth 
enieebles  fqualh  the  bodily,  and  the  ment  .1  powers.  As  in 
the  animal  system  it  engenders  disease,  30  on  the  faculties 
ol*  the  soul  it  brings  a  fatal  rust,  which  corrodes  and  wastes 
thvm;  which,  in  a  short  time,  reduces  the  brightest  genius 
to  the  same  level  with  the  meanest  understanding.  The 
great  differences  which  take  place  among  men,  are  not  ow- 
ing to  a  distinction  that  nature  has  made  in  their  original 
powers,  so  much  as  to  the  superior  diligence  with  which 
some  have  improved  these  powers  beyond  others.  To  no 
purpose  do  we  possess  the  seeds  of  many  great  abilities,  if 
they  are  suffered  to  lie  dormant  within  us.  It  is  not  the  la- 
tent possession,  but  the  active  exertion  of  them,  wnich 
gives  them  merit.  Thousands  whom  indolence  has  sunk 
into  contemptible  obscurity,  might  have  come  forward  to 
the  highest  distinction,  if  idleness  had  not  frustrated  the 
effect  of  all  their  powers. 

Instead  of  going  on  to  improvement,  all  things  go  to  de- 
cline, with  the  idle  man.  His  character  falls  into  contempt. 
His  fortune  is  consumed.  Disorder,  confusion,  and  embar- 
rassment, mark  his  whole  situation  Observe  in  what  live* 
ly  colours  the  st  ite  of  his  affairs  is  described  by  Solomon. 
"  I  went  by  the  field  of  the  slothful,  and  bv  the  vineyard  of 
the  man  void  of  understanding.  And  lo!  it  was  ail  grown 
over  with  thorns  ;  nettles  had  covered  the  face  thereof;  and 
the  stone  wall  was  broken  down.  Then  I  saw  and  consi- 
dered it  well.  I  looked  upon  it,  and  received  instruction." 
Is  it  in  this  manner  that  a  man  lives  to  himself  ?•  Are  these 
the  advantages,  which  were  expected  to  be  found  in  the  lap 
oi  ease?  The  down  »n  »y  at  first  have  appeared  soit;  but  it 
will  soon  be  found  to  cover  thorns  innumerable.  This,  is, 
however,  only  a  small  pavRrf  the  evils  which  persons  of 
this  description  bring  on  themselves  ;  for, 

In  the  second  place,  while  in  trus  ,aa mer  they  shut  the 
door  against  every  improvement,  tru-y  open  it  wide  to  the1 
most  destructive  vices  and  follies.  The  hti  nan  mind  can- 
not remain  always  unemployed.  Its  passions  must  have 
some  exercise.  If  we  supply  them  not  with  proper  employ- 


Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

nient,  they  are  sure  to  run  loose  into  riot  and  disorder. 
While  we  are  unoccupied  by  what  is  good,  evil  is  continu- 
ally at  hand  ;  and  hence  it  is  said  in  Scripture,  that  as  soon 
as  Satan  fci  found  the  house  empty,"  he  took  possession, 
and  filled  it  u  with  evil  spirits."  Every  man  who  recollects 
his  conduct,  may  be  satisfied,  that  his  hours  of  idleness  have 
always  proved  the  most  dangerous  to  virtue.  It  was  then, 
that  criminal  desires  arose  ;  guilty  pursuits  were  suggested  ; 
and  designs  were  formed,  which,  in  their  issue,  have  dis- 
quiet-d  and  embittere  1  his  whole  life.  If  seasons  of  idle- 
s  are  dang  -mus,  xvh.it  mas;  aconiina-d  rubitof  it  prove? 
Habitual  indolence,  by  a  silent  and  secret  progresss,  un- 
dermines every  virtue  in  the  soul.  More  violent  passions 
run  their  course  and  termi  iate.  fhey  a»e  like  rapid  tor- 
rents, xfhich  loam,  and  swell,  and  bear  down  every  thing 
foei'ore  them.  Bu  ;\ 'ing  overflowed  their  banks,  their 

impetuosity  subsides.  They  retuin,  by  devi'ees,  into  their 
natural  channel  ;  and  the  damage  which  they  have  clone, 
can  be  repaired.  Sloth  is  like  the  slowly-flowing,  putrid 
stream,  which  stagnates  in  the  marsh,  breeds  venomous 
animals,  and  poisouous  plants  ;  and  infects  with  pesilential 
vapours  the  whole  country  round  it.  Having  once  tainted 
the  soul,  it  leaves  no  part  of  n  sound  ;  and  at  the  same  time, 
gives  not  those  alarms  to  conscience,  which  the  eruptions 
of  bolder  and  fiercer  emotions  often  occasion.  The  disease 
which  it  brings  on,  is  creeping  and  insidious  ;  and  is,  on 
that  account,  more  certainly  mortal. 

One  constant  i-ff  ct  of  idleness,  is  to  nourish  the  passions, 
and,  of  course,  to  heighten  our  demands  for  gratification  ; 
while  it  unhappily  withdraws  from  us  the  proper  means  for 
gratifying  these  demands.  If  the  desires  of  the  industrious 
man  are  set  upon  opulence  or  distinction,  upon  the  conve- 
niences, or  the  advantages  of  life,  he  can  accomplish  his 
desires,  by  methods  which  are  fair  and  allowable.  The  idle 
man  has  the  same  desires  with  the  industrious,  but  not  the 
same  resources  for  compassing  his  ends  by  honourable 
means.  He  must  therefore  turn  himself  to  seek  by  fraud, 
or  by  violence,  what  he  cannot  submit  to  acquire  by  indus- 
try. Hence,  the  origin  of  those  multiplied  crimes  to  which 
idleness  is  daily  giving  birth  in  the  world  ;  and  which  con- 
tribute so  much  to  violate  the  order,  and  to  disturb  the 
peace  of  society.  In  general,  the  children  of  idleness  may 


•nous  Pieces.  115 

be  ranked  under  two  denomimtions  or  classes  of  men. 
her  incapable  of  any  effort,  they  are  such  as  sink  into 
absolute  meanness  of  character,  and  contentedly  wallow 
with  the  drunkard  and  debauchee,  among  the  herd  of  the 
sensual,  until  poverty  overtakes  them,  or  disease  cuts  them 
off;  or,  they  are  such  as,  retaining  some  remains  of  vigour, 
are  impelled,  by  their  passions,  to  venture  on  a  desperate 
attempt  for  retrieving  their  ruined  fortunes.  ,In  this  case, 
they  employ  the  art  of  the  fraudulent  gamester  to  insnare 
the  unwary.  They  issue  forth  with  the  highwayman  to 
plunder  on  the  road  ;  or  with  the  thief  and  the  robber,  they 
infest  the  city  by  night.  From  this  class,  our  prisons  arc 
peopled ;  and  by  them  the  scaffold  is  furnished  with  those 
melancholy  admonitions,  which  are  so  often  delivered  from 
it  to  the  crowd.  Such  are  frequently  the  tragical,  but  well 
known  consequences  of  the  vice  of  idleness. 

In  the  third\  and  last  place,  how  dangerous  soever  idle- 
ness may  be  to  virtue,  are  there  not  pleasures,  it  may  be 
said,  which  attend  it?  Is  there  not  ground  to  plead,  that  it 
brings  a  release  from  the  oppressive  cares  of  the  world;-  and 
sooths  the  mind  with  a  gentle  satisfaction,  wliich  is  not  to 
be  found  arnHst.the  toils  of  a  busy  and  active  life  ? — This 
is  an  advantage  which,  least  of  all  others,  we  admit  it  tc 
possess.  In  behalf  of  incessant  labour,  no  man  contends. 
Occasional  release  from  toil,  an-  indulgence  of  ease,  is 
what  nature  demands,  and  virtue  allows.  But  what  we  as- 
sert is,  that  nothing  is  so  great  an  enemy  to  the  lively  and 
spirited  enjoyment  of  life,  as  a  relaxed  and  indolent  habit 
of  mind,  lie  who  knows  not  what  it  is  to  labour,  knows" 
not  what  it  is  to  enjoy.  The  felicity  of  human  life,  depends 
on  the  regulu*  prosecution  of  some  laudable  purpose  or  ob- 
ject, which  keeps  awake  and  enlivens  all  our  powers.  Our 
happiness  consists  in  thf  pursuit,  much  more  than  in  the  at- 
tainment, of  any  temporal  good.  Rest  is  agreeable  ;  but  it 
is  only  from  preceding  labours,  that  rest  acquires  its  true 
relish.  When  the  mind  ts  suffered  to  remain  in  continued 
inaction,  all  its  powers  decay.  It  soon  languishv-s  and  sick- 
ens ;  and  the  pleasures  which  it  proposed  to  obtain  from 
rest,  end  in  tedioiisness  and  insipidity.  To  this,  let  that  mi- 
serable set  of  men  bear  witness,  who,  after  spending  great 
part  of  their  life  inactive  industry,  have  retired  to  wh*t 

1O 


J16 

the  y  f;.; 

ii.  '  \i  y,  an.-;  pi 

pc  ct  U  IM    l,n,l    ;JD  i  hsinn.,  i 

ti; 

on-,  in  uniform  1  m.^our; 

often    r<ui 

the\    v. ,  3ftl  jn  th- 

the  wo: 

UY  appcril  to  every  one  v 
observation  oi' life,  whether  the 

•U  ot    tlu  • 

in  i 

they  mingle;    and   mn.iik,  - 

cheeffu] 

flow  of  spii 

humour,   most   ;; 

both 

den  to  thems;  1\  ,o  thov 

are  connected  ;   a   m 

their  comj):. 

En< 

person, 

state.      ':  !•  us  uji  to 

in    our  >  ii  uiou-s 

\vh.ch  !' 

bed  oi   .-bah  ;  <li 
an  i  in;j)ro\e   tu 

H    . 

i  prove  not  • 
to  occupy  ti 

even  ft'  busy   nit  n.  th ;...-.:   ar 
1^-  t  them   tuke  c 

e  second 

plo\  ill' 

>pacfs  of  life,  which  too  many   assign, 

or  to  mere  inaction.     • 

hr.  nevi  )  ntire  idlenesb  always  ' 

either  on  mis-  n  guilt. 

At  the  s'l.iie  time,  let  th-  course  of  our  employments  be 
•rdi-rcci  in  such  a  manner,  that  in  currying  them  on,  we 
«i'»v  {)  ;IIM>  promoting  our  eternal  interesi.  VVuh  Uu  !^u- 
-sincss  oi  the  world,  let  us  properly  intermix  the  e 


/V<v.y.  117 

ion.     By  religious  duti<  s,  and  virtuous  actions,  It 
,:,\  p.-.-.rc   ourselves   for  a  better  world.      In  the 
.  labours  for  this  life,  it  o^ht  never  to  be  tor- 
>,  that  we  must  fcu  first  seek  the  kingdom  ot  God,  and 
-acousness  ;    ;uid   give  diligent*-  t»»  IT,. ike  our  cdlmg 
-.lection   -ure:"  otherwise,   how  active  soever  we  may 
i  to  be,  our  whole  activity  will   prove  only  a  laborious 
•ji-ss  :    we  shall  appear  in  the  end,  to  h-»ve  been  busy  to 
.urpose,  or  to  a  purpose  worse  than  none.      Then   only 
vc  fujfii  the  proper  character  of  Christians,  when  we  join 
.that  pious  zeal  which  becomes  us  as  the  servant >  ot   G<>d, 
with  that  industry  which   is  required  of -'us,  as  good  num- 
bers of  society;  when,  according  to  the  exhortation  of  the 
Apostle,  we  are  found   "not  slothful  in  business,"  and,  al 
the  same  time,  "fervent  in  spirit,  serving  the  Lord."-BLAiR 

SECTION  iv. —  The  choice  of  our  situation  in  life,  a  point  of 
great  importance* 

THE  influence  of  a  new  situation  of  external  fortune  is 
so  great  ;  it  gives  so  different  a  turn  to  our  temper  and  af- 
fections, to  our  views  and*  desires,  that  no  man  can  foretel 
what  his  character  would  prove,  should  he  be  either  raised 
or  depressed  in  his  circumstances,  in  a  remarkable  degree^ 
or  placed  in  sorne^sphere  of  action,  widely  different  from 
that  to  which  he  has  been  accustomed  in  former  life. 

The  seeds  of  various  qualities,  good  and  bad,  lie  in  all 
our  hearts.  But  until  proper  occasions  ripen,  and  br 
them  forward,  they  lie  there  inactive  and  dead.  They  are 
covered  up  and  concealed  within  the  recesses  of  our  na- 
ture:  or,  if  they  spring  up  at  all,  it  is  under  such  an  ap- 
pearance as  is  frequently  mistaken,  even  by  ourselves.  Pride, 
for  instance,  in  certain  situations,  has  no  opportunity  of  dis- 
playing itself,  but  as  magnanimity* or  sense  of  honour.  Ava- 
rice appears  as  necessary  and  laudable  economy.  What  in 
one  station  of  life  would  discover  itself  to  be  cowardice  and 
baseness  of  mind,  passes  in  another  for  prudent  circumspec- 
tion. What  in  the  fulness  of  power  would  prove  to  be  cru- 
elty and  oppression,  is  reputed,  in  a  subordinate  rank,  no 
more  than  the  exerc;  per  discipline.  For  a  while, 

man  is  known  neither  by  the  world,  nor  by  himself,  to 
be  what  he  truly  is.  But  bring  him  into  a  new  situation  of 
life,  which  accords  wi;h  his  predominant  disposition;  which 


118  Sequel  to  the  English  J?e^ 

strikes  on  certain  latent  qualities  of  his  soul,  and  aw;;1 
them  into  action;    and  us  the   K-avt  s  of  a  flower  gnu!'. 
unfold  to   the  sun,  so  shall  all    his  true  character  open  lull 
to  view. 

Tiiis  may,  in  one  light,  he  recounted  not  so  much  an  al- 
teration of  thai  acu-r.  \  a  change  of  circumstan- 
ces, as  a  discovery  brought  forth  of  the  real  eh;,  !,ah 
fornurly  1  V  concealed.  Yi  I,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  true 
that  the  man  himself  undergoes  a  change.  For  <•»  poitunity 
being  given  ior  certain  dispositi  !i  had  been  dor- 
*  mant,  to  exert  tl  .t,  they  (>f  course 
gather  strength.  1>  :jKy 
gain,  o;  <•  of  the  \  iluis 
an  alti !  n.ade  in  the  whole  structure  and  s\  su  m  of 
the  soul.  lie'is  a  truly  \  <  good  man,  \\  ho,  through 
Divine  ,s  superior  to  this  ir.ik;e;iee  oi 
tune  on  his  ehiraeter;  who,  having  once  imbibed  worthy 
sentiments^  j;nd  established  pr  ' tuples  of  action,  con- 
tiniK  s  constant  '  r  i>is  circumstances  be  ; 
ma'ritain-',  tiirr.ujrhout  «11  th(  i  of  his  lifi-,  or.c  uni- 
fo.m  and  supported  tenour  of  Conduct;  and  \vh..t  he  ab- 
horred ase\il  and  \\itked,  in  the  beginning  of  his  days, 
continues  to  abhor  i<  .  15 ut  ru,\v  rare  is  it  to  meet 
with  this  honourable  consistency  among  men,  while  they 
are  passing  through  the  different  stations  and  periods  of 
lire  !  When  they  are  setting  out  in  the  world,  before  their 
minds  have  been  greatly  misled  or  debased,  they  glow  witK 
generous  emotions  and  look  with  contempt  on  what  is  sor- 
did and  guilty.  But  advancing  farther  in  life,  and  inured 
by  degrees  to  the  crooked  ways  of  men  ;  pressing  through 
the  crowd,  and  the  bustle  of  the  world ;  obliged  to  contend 
vrith  this  man's  craft,  and  that  man's  scorn  ;  accustomed, 
sometimes,  to  conceal  their  sentiments,  and  often  to  stifle 
tru-ir  feelings,  they  become  at  last  hardened  in  heart,  and 
familiar  \\iih  corruption.  Who  would  not  drop  a  u~ar  u\vr 
this  sad,  but  frequent  fall  of  human  probity  and  honour? 
"Who  is  not  humbled,  when  he  beholds  the  refund  st rai- 
ments and  high  principles  on  whicb  we  are  so  ready  to  va- 
lue ourselves,  brought  to  so  shanruful  n  issue  ;  and  m  r?9 
with  all  his  boasted  attainments  of  reason,  discovrre 
©Urn  to  be  the  creature  of  his  external  fortune, 
and  formed  by  the  incidents  of  his  life  ? 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  119 

Let  us  f©r  a  moment  reflect  on  the  dangers  which  arise 
from  stations  of  power  and  greatness;  especially,  when  the 
elevation  of  men  to  these  has  been  ivpid  and  sudden.  Few 
have  the  strength  cf  mind  which  is  requisitejor  bearing 
such  a  change  with  temperance  and  self-command.  The  re- 
spect which  is  paid  to  the  great,  and  the  scope  which  their 
condition  affords  for  the  indulgence  of  pleasure,  are  peri- 
lous circumstances  to  virtue.  When  men  live  among  their 
equals,  and  are  accustomed  to  encounter  the  hardships  of 
life,  they  an?  of  course  reminded  of  their  mutual  depend- 
ence on  each  other,  and  of  the  dependence  of  all  upon  God* 
But  when  they  are  highly  exalted  above  their  fellows,  they 
meet  with  few  objects  to  awaken  serious  reflection,  and 
with  many  to  fted  and  inflame  their  passions.  They  arc 
apt  to  separate  their  interest  from  that  of  all  around  them  ; 
to  wrap  tlivrtiselvts  .up  in  their  vain  grandeur  ;  and,  in  the 
lap  of  indolence  and  selfish  pleasure,  to  acquire  a  cold  in- 
difference to  the  concerns  even  of  those  whom  they  call 
their  friends.  The  fancied  independence  into  which  they 
are  lifted  up,  is  adverse  to  sentiments  of  piety,  as  well  as 
of  humanity,  in  their  heart, 

But  we  are  not  to  imagine,  that  elevated  stations  in  the 
world  furnish  the  only  formidable  trials  to  which  our  vir- 
tue is  exposed.  It  will  be  found,  that  we  are  liable  to  no 
fewer,  nor  less  dangerous  temptations,  from  the  opposite 
extreme  of  poverty  and  depression.  When  men  who  have 
known  better  days  are  thrown  down  into  alj-ct  situations 
ol  fortune,  their  spirits  are  broken,  and  their  u  mpers  sour- 
ed :  envy  rankles  in. their  breast  at  such  as  are  more  suc- 
cesslul ;  the  providence  of  Heavertis  accused  in  secret  mur- 
murs ;  and  the  sense  of  misery  is  ready  to  push  them  into 
atrocious  crimes,  in  order  to  better  their  state.  Among  the 
inferior  classes  of  mankind,  craft  and  dishonesty  are  too 
often  found  to  prevail.  Low  and  penurious  circumstances 
depress  the  human  powers.  They  deprive  men  of  the  pro- 
per  means  of  knowledge  and  improvement  ;  and  where  ig- 
norance is  gross,  it  is  always  in  hazard  of  engendering 
profligacy. 

Hence  it  has  been,  generally,  the  opinion  of -wise  men  in. 
all  ages,  that  there  is*  a  certain  middle  condition  of  life, 
•qually  remote  from  cither  of  those  extremes  of  fortune* 

#10 


1 20  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

which,  though  it  wants  not  also  its  own  dangers,  vet  is,  o*. 
the  whole,  the  state  most  favourable  both  to  virtue  and  to 
happiness.  For  there,  luxury  an, I  pride  on  the  one  hand,, 
have  not  opportunity  to  enervate  or  intoxicate  the  mind, 
nor  want  and  dependence  on  the  other,  to  sink  and  debase 
it ;  there,  all  the  native  aftVctions  of  the  soul  have  the  freest 
and  fairest  exercise,  the  equality  of  men  is  felt,  friendships 
are  formed,  and  improvements  of  e\ery  sort  are  pursued 
With  most  success;  there,  nun  are  prompted  to  industry 
without  being  overcome  by  toil,  and  their  powers  called 
forth  into  e  x  rtion,  without  bring  either  superseded  by  too 
much  abundance,  or  baffled  by  insuperable  difficulties  ; 
there,  a  mixture  of  comforts  and  of  wants,  at  once  awakens 
their  gratitude  to  God,  and  reminds  them  of  their  depend- 
ence on  his  aid  ;  and  the  re  fore,  in  this  state,  m  ic 
enjoy  life  to  most  advantage,  and  to  be  leasi  exposed  to  I 
sn.«res  of  vice. 

From  what  has  bet-n  said,  we  learn  the  importance  of  at- 
tending, with  the  utmost  tare,  to  the  choice  uln/h  we  make 
of  our  <  mploymtrnt  and  condition  in  life,  it  has  been  shown, 
that  our  exu  rn.il  situation  frequently  operates  powerfully 
on  our  moral  character;  and  by  ionsequcnce  that  it  is  strict- 
ly conn«  ct<  d,  not  only  with  our  temporal  \veltaie,  but  \viiU 
our  everlasting  i  ry.  lie  u  ho  might  have 

passed  umblained,  and  upright  through  certain  walks  of  life,, 
by  unhappily  choosing  a  road  \\hert.  IK  meets  with  tempt. i- 
tions  too  str  n^  for  his  virtur,  precipitates  himself  into 
shame  hen  ,  an.l  in. o  endless  ruin  hereafter.  Yet  how  often  is 
the  determination  of  this  most  important  article  left  to  the 
chance  of  accidental  connexions,  or  submitted  to  the  option 
of  \outh.ul  fancy  and  humour!  When  it  is  made  the  sub- 
ject of  s<  rious  di  liberation,  how  seldom  have  they,  on 
whom  th  decision  of  it  depends,  any  further  view  than  so 
to  Dispose  of  om-  who  is  coming  out  into  lite,  as  that  he 
ir.av  the  s  <-.  '.iine  rich  f,  i»  expressed,  make 

his  way  to  im.>st  advantage  in  the  world  !  Are  there  no 
oth.  r  obj  cis  than  this  to  he  attended  to,  in  fixing  the  plan 
o!  liic  i  Are  there  not  sacred  and  important  interests  vvhiclv 
deserve  to  be  consulted  r  —  We  would  not  willingly  place 
one  \vhosi-  welfare  we  studii  d,  in  a  situation  for  which  we 
\verr  conv  need  th;-tt  his  al)iiities  were  unequal.  These, 
e,  we  exumine  with  care ;  and  on  them  we  rest  the 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  \tl 

ground  of  our  decision.  It  is,  however,  certain,  that  no*, 
abilities  merely,  but  the  turn  of  the  temper  itrui  tiir^  heart, 
require  to  be  examined  with  equal  attention,  in  forming  • 
plan  of  future  establishment.  Every  one  has  some  peculiar 
weakness,  some  predominant  passion,  which  exposes  him 
to  temptations  of 'one  kind  more  than  of  another.  Early  thi» 
may  be  discerned  to  shoot  ;  and  from  its  first  risings  its  fu- 
ture growth  may  be  inferred.  Anticipate  its  progress.  Con- 
sider how  it  is  likely  to  be  affected,  by  succeeding  occur- 
rences in  life.  If  we  bring  one  whom  we  are  rearing  up, 
into  a  situation,  u  he  re  all  the  surrounding  circumstance! 
shall  cherish  and  mature  tins  fatal  principle  in  his  nature, 
\ve  become,  in  a  great  measure,  answerable  for  the  conse- 
nces  that  follow.  In  vain  we  trust  to  his  abilities  and 
powers.  Vice  and  corruption,  when  they  have  tainted  the 
heart,  are  sufficient  to  ovei  stt  the  greatest  abilities.  Nay,  too 
frequently  they  turn  them  against  the  possessor;  and  ren- 
der them  the  instruments  of  his  mure  speedy  rain. — BLAIR. 

IECTION  V. — N&lifr  is  pleading  to  God,'that  is  n^l  ^  (j&rf 
to  man.     }An  eastern  narrative* 

IT  pleased  our  mightv  sovereign  Abbas  Cara-can,  from 

whom  the  kings  of  the  earth  derive  honour  and  dominion., 

to  set  Mirza  his  seivant  <>V*.T  the  province  of  Tauri^,      In 

hand  oi    Mirza,  the   balance  of    distribution   was   sus- 

;.-ded  with  impartiality  ;  and  under  his  admu.istratiurj  the 
\veak  were  protected,  th<-  learned  received  honour,  and  the 
diligent  became  rich  :  Mirza,  therefore,  was  hehtld  by  eve- 
ry eye  with  complacency,  aod  every  toi  guc  pronounced 
blessings  upon  his  head.  But  it  was  obst  r\vd  that  he  de- 
rived no  joy  from  the  benefits  which  he  diffused  ;  he  be- 
came pensive  and  melancholy;  he  spent  his  L.isure  in  s^li- 
tude  ;  in  his  p-dace  he  sat  motionless  u;,on  a  sola  ;  and  v;hen 
he  WLiit  out,  his  walk  was  slow,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  up- 
on the  ground  :  ht  applied  to  the  business  of  state  with  re- 
luctance ;  xnd  resolved  to  relinquish  the  toil  of  government, 
oi  which  he  couUt  no  longer  enjoy  the  reward. 

He,  tin  refore,  obtained  permission  to  approach  the  throne 
of  our  sovereign  :  and  being  asked  what,  was  his  request,  he 
made  this  repU  :  "  May  the  Lord  of  the  world  forgive  the 
sl.»ve  whom  he  has  honoured,  if  Mirza  presume  again  to 
lay  the  bounty  of  Abbas -at  his  feet.  Thou  hast  given  me 


. 


fruitful  as  the  gariltus  of  Da- 
:    and  a  v  !  othtrs,  cxc^'t   ; 

;,!endour  of  thy  pn  sence.    But  the' 
•jctly  sufik'u  ni   to  prepare    for 
ai.U  usviM,  as  the  toil  of 
r,  '          r  \vhose  loot  tlh  y 

parish  for  i  nt  is  unsubstantial   and 

ow  that  ap,  the 

the 

• 

orld  be  for- 

....     he  veft'of  et(   nity 
•y." 
.lent. 

,    ;  t 

" 

3     . 

rntd  his  m<n  :he 

•  liiuu-tl  H'  -iir. 

r  are  come   upon   me.      I    inn 
thttt  he  is  n 

.    !:y  an  ivrc- 

;  I   know  not  wht  -:,  a 

•".i.    I  am  as  ihou  ,  lilc  ol  the  earth  : 

my  life  is  a  moment,  and  t  tornity,  in  which  days,  and  years, 

ac-t^  arr  r'--t!iii:.^,  <-tcrnu\   is   before  me,  for  \vhich  I 

should  ;  but  by  whom  then  must  the   faithful 

be   j  ?   By  th  ,  who  have  no  fear  of  judg- 

iose  life  is  brutal,  because    like 

brutes  they  do  not  consider  that  they  shall   die  ?   Or  who, 

.  <:d,  are  -tul?     Are  the  busy  multitudes  that 

crowd  th?  city,  in  a  state  of  p<.  <»nd  is  the  cell  of  the 

Dervise  alons  the  gate  of  .  To  all,  the  life  of  a 

rfore,  it  cannot  be  a  duty- 

Drpart  to  the  hc^uy-  which  has  in  this  city  been  prepared 
for  thy  i  :    I   will   meditate  the  reason  of  thy  re- 

quest; and  may  He  who  illuminates  the  mind  of  the  hum- 
hk,  enable  me  to  determine  with  wisdom." 

Mirza  dv'pnrted  ;  and  on  the  third  day,  having  received 

ted  an  audience,  aud  it  v 


Pro  m  iscitz  us  PI  sees. 

granted.  When  he  entered  the  r  -y..!  prescar,v'u*,  his  counte- 
nance  appeared  more  cheerful  ;  he  dri  er  Iro.n  his 

bosom,  and  having  kissed  it,  ;  itcd  it  v.  idi  his  ri^ht 

hand.  '"  My  Lord  !"  said  In,  u  I  !tav«  learned  by  this  let- 
ter,  which  "[received  from  Cosrnu  ihe  Jinan,  who  stands 
now  before  tfree, in  what  manner  life  may  he  .->ved.  I 

am  enabled  to  look  back  wuli  pleasure,  and  forward  with 
hope  ;  and  I  shall  now  n  ,  -^  shadow  of  thy 

power  at  Tarn-is,  and  ktep  those  honours  which  1  so  lately 
wished  to  resign."      The  king,  who  had  listened  to  Mirza 
wich  a  nu\:'a<c  of  surprise  and  curiosity,  .immediately  gave 
the  letter  to  Cosrou,  and  commanded  that  it  should  !)e  read. 
The  eves  of  the  coii]2  were  at  o*;ce  turned  upon^Uie  hoary 
•    countenance   was  /  suffused    with    an    honest 
,  blush  ;  and  it  was  not  wiUiout  some  hesitation  that  he  read 
tluse  words.  •     . 

fcfc  To  Mirza,  whom  the  wisdom  of  Abbas  our  mighty 
lord  h  is  honoured  \vith  dominion,  be  perpetual  health  I 
When  I  heard  thy  purpose  to  withdraw  the  blessings  of 
thy  government  from  the_  thousands  of  Tauris,  my  heart 
was  wounded  with  the  arrow  of  affliction,  and  my  eyes  be- 
came di;n  with  sorrow.  But  who  shall  sneak  before  the 
king  when  he  is  troubled  ;  and  who  shall  boast  of  know- 
ledge, when  he  is  distressed  by  doubt  ?  To  thee  will  I  re- 
late the  events  of  my  youth,  which  thou  hast  renewed  be- 
fore me  ;  and  those  truths  which  they  taught  me,  may  the 
prophet  multiply  to  thee  ! 

Under  the  instruction  of  the  physician  Aluzar,  I  obtain- 
ed an  early  knowledge  of  his  art.  To  those  who  were  smit- 
ten with  disease,  I  could  administer  plants,  which  the  SUR 
h  s  impregnated  with  the  spirit  of  health.  But  the  scenes 
of  pain,  languor,  and  mortalitv,  which  were  perpetually  ris- 
ing before  me,  made  me  ofu.n  tremble  for  mys.ii".  I  saw 
the  grave  open  at  my  feet ;  I  determined,  therefore  to  con- 
template only  the  regions  beyond  it,  avid  to  despise  every 
acquisition  which  I  could  not  keep,  I  conceived  ,n  opi- 
nion, that  as  there  was  no  merit  but  in  voluntary  p  .vertv, 
and  silent  meditation,  thosv-  who  desired  tnonty  were  not 
proper  objects  of  bounty  ;  and  that  by  nil  who  were  proper 
objects  of  bounty,  money  was  tk  spised.  I  therefore  I  iried 
mine  in  the  earth,  and  renouncing  society,  I  wandered  into 
u  \viid  and  sequestered  part  of  the  country.  My  dwelling 


*Srfj- 

was  n  ( «.  a  hill.    I  diank  the  i ..                 ..tev 

n  the  sp! '  h   Ir.iiis  cii  J   heri«  as  i  n,i:id 

'-      To  ir  "ity    of    nn     lih  ,    I    li.qiuntly 

chid  iiil  ;  '"iinj*  ;u   flu   iiuramr  of    tin   cavt  YMilv 

'»}  M  If    (i.  ,      t   miitUPL*  S 

f)i   the   ^'  '  tin  n<«l  vigil,  jiibl 

»S     I     JH  IV  appJO.tl  . 

*h*'    \  ;•  it. 

1  nn   gined  h  ;  iit  the  riur.  <  11  ; 

that  the  ilnv/n  increased;  and  that  as  I  looked  t  lur 

the  first  '  day,  a  d  re-. -pt  it. 

I  pv  ion  ;  it  increased  in  .  ize  as  it 

dresv  near,  and  at  length  Id'  i  it  to  b<  le.   I 

still  ktp  il  steadfastly  up<;n  it,  .  -^ht 

at  a  sm-ili  distance,  \siu-re  I  now  dchiii-'d  a  i'ox  whose  t\vo 
fore  urired  to  be  broken. 

i  of  a  kii'  lit  bud  brought  in  her  talons,  and 

then  disappeared.   When  I  awaked,  I  laid  my  loghead  up- 
on the  ground,  and  blessed  the  Prophet  for  tlv  /ion 
of  the  morning.      I  reviewed  mv  dream,   nnd  said  thus  to 
i   hast  done  well    to  renounce  the  tu- 
•  business,  and  vanities  of  life  :  but  thou  hast  as  yet 
only  done  it  in  part;  thou  art  still  every  day   busied  in  the 
ch  of  food  ;   thy  mind  is  not  wholly  at  rest ;  neither  ia 
thy  trust  in  Providence  complete.   What  art  thou  taught  by 
this                     If  thou  hast  seen  an  eagle  commissioned  by 
Heaven  to  feed  a  fox  that  is  lame,  shall  not  the  h  <nd  cf 
supply  thee  with  food,  when   that  which  pre- 
om  procuring  it  for  thyself,  is  not  necessity, 
but                  i  ? — I  v v               so  confident  of  a  miraculous 
nly,  thai  I  neglected  to  walk  out  for  my  repast,  which, 
after  i^c  first  day  I  e                  with  an   impatience  that  lelt 
little  power  G                 ng  to  any  other  object.   This  im- 
• ,  I  laboured  to  suppress,  and  persisted  in 
resolution  :  but  r<                                 '  lcSl»n  to  ^l  me> 
knees  smott;                        :  I  thvcw  myself  b;:.  and 
d  iuy  weak,-                 Id  soon   increase  to  i                ^ty. 
t  I  was  sudcl                  -  d  by  the  voice  of  an  invisible  be- 
who  pro:VvViiiK«.d  these  words  *.   l  Cosrou,  I  am  the,  yii- 
who,  b\  the  coir                .  tlie  Almighty,  have  regisier- 
.he  thoughts  of  thy  heart,  which  I  am  now  commission- 
ing to  become  wiee 


Promiscuous  123 

ahrv.  is  r-veal  d,  thy  f«>Uv  has  perverted  the  in^ 

stiuction  wrurh  was  Vouchsafed  r-'  v  <noa  disabled  «s 
the  fo.x  f  hast  thou  not  rather  th<-  po>A  rs  of  the  eagl  ? 
Arise,  let  the  eagle  be  the  object  of  thy  emulation.  I  9 
pain  and  sickness,  be  thou  again  th<-  messenger  of  ease  and 
health.  Virtue  is  not  rest,  but  action.  If  thou  dost  good  to 
man  as  an  evidence- of  thy  love  to  God,  thy  virtue  will  be 
exalted  from  moral  to  divine  ;  and  thai  happiness  which  is 
the  pledge  of  paradise,  wsll  be  thy  reward  upon  earth." 

u  At  these   words    I  was  not   less  astonished  than  if  a 
mountain  ha  1  beenov   rturned  at  my  feet.  1  humbled  «i^  suf 
in  the  dust ;  I  returned  to  the  city  ;  I  dug  up  my  treasure  ; 
I  was  liberal,   yet    I    became  rich.      My   skill   in   restoring 
health  to  the. body,  gave  me  frequent  opportunities  of  cur- 
ing the  diseases  of  the   soal.      I  grew  eminent  beyond  my 
merit;   and   it   n  .;^  me  pleasure  of  the:  king  that  i  should 
fore  him.    Now,  therefore,  be  not  offended  ;  I  boast 
-.iwledge  that  I  have  not  received.    As  the  sands  of 
rink   up  the  drops  of  rain,  or  the  dew   of  the 
inn:  >  do  I  also,  who  ,tm   but  dust,   imbibe   the  in- 

as  of  the  Pn  hen  that  it  is  he  who 

:  I!    knowledge,  is  profane,  which  terminates  in 
rii  ;   and   by  a  li'e  wasted   in  spc  filiation,  little  even  of 
can  be  gained.   When  the  gates  of  paradise  are  thrown 
ibrr  thee,  thy  mind  shall  be.  irradiated  in  a  moment. 
:iou  canst  ,c!o  little  nm ore  than  pile  error  upon  error: 
upon  truth.     \V   ir,  th  -refure, 

glorious  vision;   and  in  the   me->n  ti  in-  ..-muiate  the 
>wer  ;   and  t.  ex- 

?cd  ot  tht  c-.    Though  the  Almighty  only  can  give  virtue, 
thou  nv-iyst  stim  -i  be^fieficehce, 

10  act  irom  no  higher  uiou  ;  uinediate  interest: 

thou  canst  not  produce  the  pr  nt  mayst  enforce  tlie 

ctice.     Let  thy  virtue  1  if  thou  be- 

lievest  vvith  reverence,  thou  shall  v:d  above.    Fare- 

Weil !    May  the  smile  of  him  who  res  ^  heaven  of 

heavens   bv  upon  thee  ;    and  agar  am-j,  in   the  vo- 

luuie  of  liis  \vili,  may  happiness  be  written!'* 

rhe  king,  \v!  bis,  like  those  of  Mirza,  \vere  no\v 

.  ove.ci,  1:  .uiilfc  that   cprn-nuinicaiied   the 

joy  oi    his    ninJ.      He  dismissed   th     prince  to  his  gov 
meat ,  and  couiaianacd  ta^st  events  to  be  recorded,  tu  tue 


126  'Sequel  to  the  Renter. 

end  that  posterity  may  know,  "that  no  life-  is  pleasing  to 
God,  but  that  uhieh  is  useful  to  mankind. -HAY 

SECTION  vi. — Character  of  the  Great  Founder  cf  Chris- 
tianity. 

NI.VI-R  was  there  on  earth  any  p<  r-  n  of  so  extraordi- 
nary a  character  as  the  Found* r  of  our  ivligi-  ^im 
We  uniformly  see  a  mil.uuss,  dignity,  and  composure,  and 
a  perfection  oi  wisdom  ,md  of  goodruss,  tint  plainly  point 
him  our  r  hi  in;^.  Hut  his  sup  riontv  \\  as  all  i.i 
his  own  divine  mind.  He  had  none  ol  those  outward  ad- 
vaniag  s  tnat  n.tvc  dihtnigmshi -d  ail  o:r.vr  lawgivers.  He 

.  no  influence  in  the  sUte;  he  had  no  wealth;  he  aimed 
at  no  worldly  power.    Lie  was  the  son  of  a  carpenter's  wife, 
and  he  was  himsel!  a  carpenter.   So  poor  were  his  repi. 
parents,  that  at  the  time  of  his  birth  hi-,  mother  could  ob- 
tain no   better  lodging  than  a  stable  ;    and  so   poor  was  he 
himself,  that  he  often  had  n;>  lodging  at  all.      That  he  had 
no  advantages  of  education,  we  may  ml\r  from  the  surpi 
expressed    by  his   neigh!)  heating  him  speak  in  the 

syn  u  Whence  hath  this  man  these  things?    What 

wisdom  is  i  :  him  ?   Is  not  this  the  carpen- 

ter, the  so?!  of  Mary  ?  Are  not  his  brethren  and  sisters 
with  us  j**  This  point,  however,  we  n^ed  not  insist  on  ;  as 
from  no  education,  that  1>  r  any  other  country  could 

have  afforded,  was  it  possible  for  him  to  derive  that  super- 
natural wisdom  and  power,  tnat  sanctity  of  life,  and  that 
purity  of  doctrine,  which  so  eminently  distinguish  him. 
His  first  adherents  were  a  few  fishermen  ;  tor  whom  he 
was  so  far  from  m  iking  any  provision,  that,  when  he  sent 
them  out  to  preach  repentance  and  heal  diseases,  they  were, 
by  his  desire,  furnished  wit.n  nothing,  but  one  coat,  a  pair 
of  sandals,  and  a  s  aff.  He  went  about  in  great  humility 
and  meeknes  good,  teaching  wisdom,  and  glorify- 

ing God,  for  the  space  of  about  three  years  after  the  com- 
mencement of  his  ministry  ;  .aid  then,  as  he  him.^f  had 
foreseen  and  foretold,  he  was  publicly  crucified. — This  is 
the  great  personage,  who  at  this  day  gives  law  to  the  world. 
This  is  he,  who  has  been  the  author  of  virtue  and  happi- 
ness to  millions  and  millions  of  the  human  race.  And  this 
is  he  whom  the  wisest  and  best  of  men  that  ever  lived  have 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  l'!f 

reverenced  as  a  Divine-  Person,  and  gloried  in  as  the  deli- 
VriM-  and  s.ivi  -ui  uf  mankind.  DR.  BF.ATTIE. 

St'CTi  >\  VH. —  Tiie  spirit  and  laws  of  Christianity  supe- 
rior ta  those  ofevtry  otlitr  religion. 

THE  mobility  of  the  gospel  givvs  it  an  infinite  superiori- 
ty over  all  systems  of  doctrine  that  ever  were  devised  by 
man.  Were  our  lives  and  opinions  to  be  regulated  as  it 
prescribes,  nothing  would  be  wanting  to  make  us  happy, 
tlu-re  would  be  no  injustice,  no  impiety,  no  disorderly  pas- 
sions. Harmony  and  love  would  universally  prevail.  Eve- 
ry man,  content  with  his  lot,  resigned  to  the  Divine  will, 
and  fully  persuaded  that  a  happy  eternity  is  before  himf 
would  pass  his  days  in  tranquility  and  joy,  to  which  neither 
anxiety,  nor  pain,  nor  tvcn  the  fear  of  death,  could  ever 
give  any  interruption.  The  best  systems  of  Pagan  ethics 
are  very  imperfect,  and  not  free  from  absurdity  ;  and  in 
them  are  recommended  mode's  of  thinking  unsuitable  t0 
human  nature,  and  modes  of  conduct  which,  though  they 
might  have  been  useful  in  a  political  view,  did  not  tend  te 
virtue  and  happiness  universal.  But  of  all  our  Lord's  in- 
stitutions the  object  is,  to  promote  the  happiness,  by  pro- 
moting the  virtue  of  ail  mankind. 

In  the  next  place,  his  peculiar  doctrines  are  not  like  any 
thing  of  human,  contrivance.  u  JNJVver  man  spake  like  this 
mm."  One  of  the  first  names  given  to  that  dispensation  of 
things  which  he  came  to  introduce,  was  the  kingdom  or 
the  reign  of  heaven.  It  was  justly  so  called  ;  being  thus 
distinguished,  not  only  from  the  religion  of  Mos^s,  the 
sanctions  whereof  related  to  the  p»esent  life,  but  also  from 
every  human  scheme  of  moral,  political,  or  ecclesiastical 
legislation 

The  views  of  the  heathen  moralist  extended  not  beyond 
this  world ;  those  of  the  Christian  are  fixed  on  that  which 
is  to  come.  The  former  was  concerned  for  his  own  coun^ 
try  only  or  chiefly  ;  the  latter  takes  concern  in  the  happi. 
ness  of  all  men,  of  all  nations,  conditions,  and  capacities. 
A  few,  and  but  a  few,  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  spoke  of 
a  future  state  of  retribution  as  a  thing  desirable,  and  not 
improbable  :  revelation  speaks  of  it  as  certain  ;  and  of  the 
present  life  as  a  state  of  trial,  whereia  virtue  or  holiaesa  Is 

II 


i*t  Sequel  to  the  English  Rsadtf. 

necessary,  not  only  to  entitle  us  to  that  .salvation  wbicl^ 
through  the  mercy  of  God  and  die  m-  ni^oi  his  Son, 
Christians  art-  taught  to  look  for,  hut  .dso  to  pnpare  u-,  by 
hahits  of  pi'  ty  and  b:  nevoK  nee,  for  a  rexvaro,  which  none 
but  thr  pure  in  bean  can  MCUXV,  o.  couKi  aiish. 

The  duties  of  piety,  as  far  as  the  he,«rt  is  conc<  r-i<  dt 
Were  not  miu  h  alt-  nd*  d  to  by  the  he.ith-o  lawgivers.  Ci- 
C<-M)  coldly  ranks  tht  in  with  the  social  vlau-s  ana  x-y* 
Very  li'tle  about  them.  The  sacrifices  \\v\\  n  ,  no- 

ox  .  And  wh  .t  the  Stoics  t.iught  ot  rts/^n.«uon  'o  .he  xvill 
ei  hcavt-n,  or  10  the  decrees  oi  fate,  was  so  i;  p-  ^nant  to 
soiu  oi  their  oiii'-r  tc  :K  t^,  ih  it  liuK  good  could  lie  i  xpect- 
«d  from  it.  But  ot  every  Christi  «n  x-irti-  ,  p  >t  t  .  is  an  es- 
aential  part.  The  lo\*t  and  the  fear  of  God  mu-t  txer\  mo* 
mvHt  picvail  in  t:u  heart  ot  a  follo-.M-r  «r'  Jesus;  and  whc- 
thi-r  he  eat  or  ilriiik,  or  x\  h  tti  v\r  he  do,  it  must  all  be  to 
tht  glory  ot  tht:  Creator.  >l(j\v  (UHrrent  this  from  the  phi- 
losophy <*l  (iret  ce  ,ti)(i  H  me! 

In  a  word,  (lit  heathen  morality,  even  in  its  best  form, 
that  is,  as  two  or  three  of  then  b  st  philosophers  taught  itt 
amounts  to  liltle  more  than  tins:  *fc  B>-  useful  to  x,  ourselves, 
your  i'run«is,  and  your  count  Kill  \«ui  he  respecta- 

ble uhiK-  x  ou  live,  and  n  i  \viuu  x  on  du  ;  and  it  is 

to  be  hoptd  xou  may  rrceive  a  rt-  \\ar-.  !  in  another  life." 
Th-  Unigiiage  oJ  the  Chri  vgiver  is,  different.  fck  'i'he 

t\'orl.l  is  not  xvorthy  of  tin.  ambition  oj  an  immortal  being. 
Jls  nor,  ple.a*U!e*  h  .Vi  a  tt.-ndt  ncx  to  del  as«  the 

fnmd  an  i  cli  it  for  hiturr  happin-  ss  S-t  lh«  r<  tore 

your  affections  on  things  above,  and  not  on  things  on  the 
earth.  Let  it  be  join  suf.-ieme  desire  to  obtain  the  favour 
•i  God  ;  and,  bv  a  cours*  of  discipline,  prepare  yourselves 
for  a  re-admis  ion  into  tlvt  rank  \vhi>  h  was  forfei  id  by  the 
fail  ;  and  i  r  bring  again  but  a  iitil  lower  than  the  ang'  Is, 
and  crouned  with  glory  and  honour  everlasting." 

What  an  tkvaiion  must  it  give  to  our  piciis  affections, 
lo  contemplate  the  Supn.me  Being,  and  his  Provicli  nee,  us 
revealed  to  us  in  Scripiure  !  We  are  there  taught  that  man 
wac  created  in  the  imag'  o  God,  innocent  and  happx  :  and 
th.it  he  had  no  sooner  ialkn  mto  sin,  than  his  Creator,  in- 
oi  abandoning  him,  and  his  offspring,  to  the  natural 
of  nt>  disoHl.Vi;  nc-  .-,  and  of  their  hereditary 


4tpravuy,  was  pleased  K)  begin  a  wonderiui  dibpctt*auo» 


Promiscuous  Pieces 

•F  grace,  in  order  to  rescue  from  perdition,  and  raise  again 
to  happiness,  as  many  as  should  acquiesce  in  tht-  terms  of 
the  offv  red  salvation,  and  regulate  their  lives  accordingly. 

By  th^  sacnd  books,  that  contain  the  history  ol  th;s  dis- 
pensation, we  are  further  taught  that  God  is  a  spirit,  ua* 
changeablc  anil  rtnnal,  universally  present,  and  absolutely 
perfect ;  that  it  is  our  duty  to  tear  him,  as  a  being  oi  con* 
sum  mate  puritv  and  inflexible  justice,  and  to  love  him  ae 
tht  Father  of  Mercies,  and  the  God  of  all  consolation  :  to 
trust  in  him  as  the  friend,  the  comfoiter,  and  the  almighty 
guardian  of  all  who  fxik-ve  and  obey  him  ;  to  rejoice  id 
him  as  the  best  of  filings,  and  adore  him  as  the  greatest. 
— We  are  taught,  that  he  will  make  allowance  for  the  frail* 
tit  s  of  our  nature,  and  pardon  the  sins  of  those  who  repentg 
——and,  that  we  may  see,  in  the  strongest  light,  his  peculiar 
benignity  to  the  human  race,  we  are  taught,  that  he  gave 
his  only  Son  as  our  ransom  and  deliverer  ;  and  we  are  not 
only  permitted  but  commanded  to  pray  to  pray  to  him,  and 
address  him  as  our  Father: — we  are  taught  moreover,  that 
the  evils  incident  to  thi?  state  of  trial  are  permitted  by  him, 
in  order  to  exercise  our  virtue,  and  prepare  us  for  a  future 
state  of  never-ending  felicity  j  and  that  these  momentary- 
afflictions  are  pledges  of  hi-,  paternal  love,  and  shall,  if  we 
receive  them  as  such,  and  venerate  Him  accordingly,  work 
out  for  us  "  an  exceeding  great  and  eternal  weight  of  glo- 
ry." It  these  hopes  and  these  sentiments  contribute  more 
to  our  happiness,  and  to  the  purification  of  our  nature,  than 
anv  thine  ^(-  in  the  world  can  do,  sun-Jy  that  religion  to 
which  alone  we  owe  these  sentiments  and  hopes,  must  be 
th<  greatest  blessing  that  ever  \vas  conferred  on  the  poste- 
rity of  Adam. 

Christianity  proposes  to  our  imitation  the  highest  exam- 
ples of  benevolence,  purity,  and  piety.  It  shows,  that  all 
our  actions,  purposes,  and  thoughts,  are  to  us  cf  infinite 
importance  ;  their  consequences  being  nothing  less  than 
happiness  or  misery  in  the  life  to  come  :  and  thus  it  ope- 
ra*cfs  most  powerfully  on  our  self-love.  By  teaching,  that 
all  mankind  are  brethren  ;  by  commanding  us  to  low  cur 
neighbour  as  ourselves  ;  and  by  declaring  t-vcry  man  our 
neighbour,  to  who, n  we  have  it  in  our  power  to  do  c-.ood, 
it  improves  benevolence  to  the  highest  piich.  By  prohibit- 
ing revenge,  malice,  pride,  vanity,  cnvy,4sensuality,  andco- 


Sequel  to  the  Englhh  Reader. 

VM«'n;vi>ess  ;  nnc!  ;'Jve,  to  pray  for,  and 

out'  u-emi-.-s,  ;;:.<!  lo  (Li  to  <>tn<  ig  ;>,->  u<    \v*oi 

m  -K  vo- 
'.1 

Cannot 

so  r  ;,,a 

. 

n,  by 
.nt 
>:nd 

• 

\'.  ill) in  us  ;  purit\  of  i 

[ualif\  us  Tor  the  n  of  future 

or  churl  =L  without  which 

ues  and  accomplishments  are  of  no  value  :  and, 

striking,  it  causes  vice  to  ap- 

i)itli  cannot 

,t.    In  *i  word  u  Christianity,"  as 
rves,  u  is  a  doctrine  in  \\hich  nothing  is 
•rfltious  or  burdensome  ;  and  in  which  there  is  nothing 
which  can   procure   happiness  to  mankind,  or  by 
whi«  h  God  can  be  glorified."  DR.  BLATTIE. 

SECTION  viii.  —  The  vivion  of  Carazan :   Or^  social  lovg 
and  beneficence  recommended. 

CARAZAN,  the  merchant  of  Bagdat,  was  eminent  through- 
out all  the  east  for  his  avarice  and  his  wealth  :  his  origin 
is  obscure,  as  that  of  the  spark  which  by  the  collision  of 
steel  and  adamant  is  struck  out  of  darkness  ;  and  the  pa- 
tient labour  of  persevering  diligence  alone  had  made  him  j 
rich.  It  was  remembered,  that  when  he  was  indigent  he 
was  thought  to  be  generous  ;  and  he  was  still  acknowledg- 
ed to  be  inflexibly  just.  But  whether  in  his  dealings  with 
men,  he  discovered  a  perfidy  which  tempted  him  to  put  his 
trust  in  gold,  or  whether  in  proportion  as  he  accumulated 
w»  ;>lth,  he  dicovered  his  own  importance  to  increase,  Cara- 
prized  it  more  as  he  used  it  less  :  he  gradually  lost  the 
to  do  good,  as  he  acquired  the  power  ;  and  as 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  131 

the  hand  of  time  scattered  snow  upon  his  head,  the  freez- 
ing influence  extended  to  his  bosom. 

But  though  the  door  of  Carazan  was  never  opened  by 
hospitality,  nor  his  hand  by  compassion,  yet  fear  led  him 
constantly  to  the  mosque  at  the  stated  hours  of  prayer:  he 
performed  all  the  rites  of  devotion  with  the  most  scrupu- 
lous punctuality,  and  had  thrice  paid  his  vows  at  the  tem- 
ple  of  the  prophet.  That  devotion  which  arises  from  the 
love  of  God,  and  necessarily  inclu  ies  tht  love  of  man,  as 
it  connects  gratitude  with  benrficence,  and  exalts  that  which 
was  moral  to  divine,  confers  new  dignity  upon  goodness, 
and  is  the  object  not  only  of  affection  but  reverence.  On 
the  contrary,  the  devotion  of  the  selfish,  whether  it  be 
thought  to  avert  the  punishment  which  every  one  wishes 
to  be  inflicted,  or  to  insure  it  by  the  complication  of  hypo- 
crisy with  guilt,  never  fails  to  excite  indignation  and  ab- 
horrence, Carazan,  therefore,  when. he  had  locked  his  door, 
and  turning  round  with  a  look  of  circumspe<  tive  suspicion, 
proceeded  to  the  mosque,  was  followed  by  every  e\e  with 
silent  malignity  ;  the  poor  suspended  their  supplication, 
when  he  passed  by  ;  though  he  was  known  by  every  man, 
yet  no  m;*n  saluted  him. 

Sucn  had  long  been  the  life  of  Carazan,  and  such  was 
the  character  which  he  had  acquired,  when  notice  was  given 
by  proclamation,  that  he  was  removed  to  a  magnificent 
building  in  the  centre  of  the  city,  that  his  table  should  be 
spread  for  the  public,  and  that  the  stranger  should  be  wel- 
come to  his  bed.  The  multitude  soon  rushed  like  a  torrent 
to  his  door,  where  they  beheld  him  distributing  bread  to 
the  hungry,  and  apparel  to  the  naked,  his  eye  softened  with 
compassion,  and  his  cheek  glowing  with  delight*  Every 
one  gaz  d  with  astonishment  at  the  prodigy  ;  and  the  mur- 
mur of  innumerable,  voices  increasing  like  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching  thunder,  Carazan  beckoned  with  his  hand  :  at- 
teniion  suspended  the  tumult  in  a  moment  ;  and  he  thus 
gra;ified  the  curiosity  which  procured  him  audience- 

To  him  who  touches  the  mountains  and  they  smoke,  the 
Almighty  and  the  most  merciful,  be  everlasting  honour  !  he 
has  ordained  sleep  to  be  the  minister  of  instruction,  and 
his  visions  have  reproved  me  in  the  night.  A.S  i  was  sit- 
ting alone  in  my  haram,  with  my  lamp  burning  before  me, 

*  11 


the  English  \ 

computing  the  product  of  my  merchandize,  and  exulting 
the  increase  of  my  wealth,  I  fell  into  a  derp  sleep,  and  the 
hand  of  him  who  dwells  in  the  third  heaven  was  upon  me. 
I  beheld  the  angel  of  death  coming  forward  like  a  whirl- 
wind, and  he  smote  me  before  I  could  deprecate  the  blow. 
At  the  same  moment  1  felt  myself  lifted  from  the  ground, 
and  transported  with  astonishing  rapidity  through  the  re- 
gions of  the  air.  The  earth  was  contracted  to  an  utom  be- 
neath ;  and  the  stars  glowed  round  me  with  a  lustre  that 
obscured  the  sun.  The  gate  of  Paradise  was  now  in  sight; 
and  I  was  intercepted  by  a  sudden  brightness  which  no  hu- 
man eye  could  behold  The  irrevocable  sentence  was  now 
to  be  pronounced  ;  my  day  of  probation  was  past ;  and 
fruui  the  evil  of  my  life  nothing  could  be  taken  away,  nor 
could  any  thin^  be  added  to  the  good.  When  I  reflected 
that  my  lot  for  eternity  was  cast,  which  not  all  the  powers 
of  nature  could  reverse,  my  confidence  totally  torscok  me; 
and  while  i  stood  trembling  and  silent,  covered  with  con- 
fusion and  chilled  with  honor,  1  was  thus  addressed  by  the 
radiance  ihat  fhmcd  before  i;, 

UC  ..  >rslnp  has  not  be<  n   accepted,  because 

it  was  not  prompted  by  love  ol  God  ;  neither  can  thy  i  igh- 
teousru  -  d,  b<  c-aise  it  was  r.ot  produced  by  love 

of  :nai» :  for  t  y  >wn  sake  or,l\,  Iv-.st  thou  n ndered  to  eve- 
ry »  -r\  thou  hast  approached  ihv  Almighty 
onl  ibr  U>y  <<st  not  looked  up  with  gratitude, 
nor  m.und  ihee  with  kin.  n«  bs.  Around  thee,  thou  hast  m- 
dt  ..  , ,i  ,  Mly  ;  but  if  vice  and  foil)  could  jus-^ 
tif  n\,  would  truy  not  condemn  the  bouiu\  of 
Heavm?  If  not  upon  the  toolish  and  the  vicious,  where 
si-.  .  ,}iise  his  light,  or  t!-,e  cloiuls  distil  their  dew? 
\V  h  .  i  sli.'ll  thr-  li.-s  ot"  the  apnij^  breathe  fragrance,  or  the 
hand  of  autumn  diffW'  plenty  I*  Itemember,  Caruzan,  that 
th.-Hi  hast  -hut  c<  ^n  from  ti<>  he  tit,  and  grasped  thy 
trv.«sur-  s  v«th  a  hand  (;!  iron  ;  thou  ha-.t  lived  tor  thyself; 
an«;  t?..cre*orf,  henceforth  for  ever  thou  shult  subsist  alone. 
From  U,  ,iuht  ol  he:.vc-n,  and  from  the  society  of  all  be- 
ings, shall  th'«u  :"  d..\-n;  soli  uL  sh  ill  protract  the  lin- 
gt  ring  hours  oi  etc  rnity,  and  darkness  aggravate  the  hor- 
rors 

At  this  moment  I   >vas  driven   by  sorne  secret  and   irre- 
sistible power^ through  the  glowing  system  of  creation,  and 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  133 

passed  innumerable  worlds  in  a  moment.  As  I  approach- 
ed the  verge  of  nature-,  I  perceived  the  shadows  of  total 
and  boundless  vacuity  deepen  before  nru-,  a  dreadful  region 
of  eternal  silence,  solitude,  and  darkness  !  Unutterable  hor- 
ror seized  me  at  the  prospect,  and  this  exclamation  hurst 
from  me  with  all  the  vehemence  of  desire  :  "  O  !  that  I  had 
been  doomed  lor  ever  to  the  common  receptacle  oi  im pe- 
nitence and  guilt  ?  There  society  would  haw  alleviated  the 
torment  of  despair,  and  the  rage  of  fire  could  not  have  ex- 
cluded the  comfort  of  light.  Or,  if  I  had  been  condemned 
to  reside  in  a  comet,  that  would  return  but  once  in  a  thou- 
sand years  to  the  regions  of  light  a  ad  life  ;  the  hope  of  these 
periods,  however  distant,  would  cheer  me  in  the  dread  in- 
terv.il  of  cold  and  darkness,  and  the  vicissitude  would  #i»  - 
vide  eternity  into  time.'  While  this  thought  passed  over 
my  mind,  1  lost  sight  of  the  remotest  star,  and  the  last 
glimmering  of  light  was  quenched  in  utter  darkness.  The 
agonies  of  despair  every  moment  increased,  as  e Very  mo- 
ment augmented  my  distance  from  the  last  habitable  wold. 
I  reflected  with  intolerable  anguish,  that  when  ten  thousand 
thousand  years  had  carried  me  beyond  the  n-acn  1  ili  but 
that  Power  who  filta  infinitude,  I  should  still  look  foward 
into  an  immense  abvss  of  darkness,  through  which  i  should 
still  drive  without  succoXir  and  without  society,  farther  and 
farther  still,  for  ^ver  and  for  ever.  I  then  sti etched  out  rny 
hands  towards  the  regions  of  existence,  with  an  t  mot  on 
that  awaked  me. — Thus  have  I  been; taught  to  r-,s«i;»  •  «-.•  so- 
ciety, like  e,v*-ry  OK  her  blessing,  by  its  loss.  My  heart  is 
wanned  to  liberality;  and  I  nrn'  zealous  to  communicate 
the  happiness  which  I  feel,  to  those  in;'*-  xvh  de- 

rived ;  for  the  sov  iety.gf  one  wretch,  whom  in  the  prick  of 
prosperity  I  would  have  spurned  from  my  door,  would,  in 
the  dreadful '-'-301  i tude.  to  which  I  was  con  it.miud,  ha\e  heen 
more  highly  prized,  than  the  gold  of  Afi  ic,  or  the  gems  of 
Golconda. 

•«f'-";/-  :-  "' 

At  this  reflection  upon  his  dream,  Carazan  became  sud- 
denly silent,  and  looked  upwards  in  ecst-icy  of  gratitude 
and  devotion.  The  multitude  wvre  struck  at  once  with  the 
precept  and  axample.  ;  and  the  caliph,  to  whom  the  event 
\v  is  i  elated,  that  he  might  be  literal- beyond  he  po-\vi  of 
,  commanded  it  to  be  recorded  for  the  i>  o  hi  ,/  pos- 
terity. HAWKESWORTB, 


Styurl  to  the  English  Reader. 

SECTION  ix. — Creation  the  product  of  Divine  Goodness. 

CREATION  is  a  display  ol  Supreme  goodness,  no  Kss  tluta 
of  wisdom  and  power.  It  is  the  communication  of  number- 
less benefits,  to^  re,  to  all  who  live.  Justly 
is  the  earth  said  ro  he,  v*  full  of  the  goodness  of  the  Lor  U" 
Tii.  •  the  whole  system  of  things,  we  behold  a  ma- 
nifest tendency  to  promote  the  benefit  either  of  the  rational, 
or  the  aniiii  d  creation.  In  some  parts  oi  nature,  this  ten- 
dency may  be  less  obvious  than  in  others.  Objects,  which 
to  us  seem  useless,  or  hurtful,  may  corne.timvs  occur  ;  and 
strange  it  were,  if  in  so  vast  and  complicated  a  system,  dif- 
ficulties of  this  kind  should  not  occasionally  present  them* 
selves  to  beings,  whose  views  arc  so  narrow  and  limited  as 
ours.  It  is  well  kno.vn,  that  in  proportion  as  the  knowledge 
of  nature  has  increased  among  men,  theoe  difficulties  have 
flinii ished.  Satisfactory  accounts  have  been  given  of  m.iny 
perplexing  appearances.  Useiul  and  proper  purpos-  s  have 
been  found  to  be  promoted,  by  objects  which  were,  at  first, 
thought  unprofitable  and  noxious. 

Malignant  must  be  the  mine  of  that  person  ;  with  a  dis- 
ton  d  eve  he  must  have  contemplated  creation,  \vh  can 
suspect,  that  it  is  not  the  production  of  Infinite  Benignity 
and  (i'>o  iness.  How  many  clear  marks  of  benevolent  in- 
tention appear,  everv  where  around  us  !  VVnat  a  prolusion 
of  beauiv  tn  1  orn  n -nt  is  poured  forth  on  the  face  of  na- 
ture !  What  a  magnificent  spectacle  presented  to  the  view 
of  man  !  Whit  supply  contrived  tor  his  wanis  !  What  a 
variety  of  ooj  s  set  before  him,  to  graiiY  his  senses,  to 
employ  his  understanding,  to  entertain  his  imagination,  to 
cheer  and  gl  dden  his  heart  ?  Indetd,  the  very  existence  of 
the  universe  is  a  standing  memorial  ot  the  goodness  ol  the 
Creator.  For  nothing  except  goodness  could  originally 
piompt  creation.  The  Supreme  Being,  self  existent  and 
all-sufficient,  had  no  wants  which  he  could  seek  to  supply. 
No  new  accession  of  felicity  or  irlory  was  to  result  to  him, 
from  creatures  which  he  made.  It  was  goodness  commu- 
nicating and  pouring  itself  forth,  goodness  delighting  to 
impart  happiness  i%jali  its  forms,  whi.  h  in  the  beginning 
created  the  he:»ven  and  the  earth.  Hence,  those  innumera- 
ble orders  of  i:^  ?ng  "crWtures  nch  the  earth  is  peo- 
pled ;  (rom  the^  lowest  cla^s  of  sensitive  !)  n,^,  to  the  igh- 
est  rank  of  reason  and  intelligence.  Wherever  there  is  life 


Pro m  i xenons  ^Pieces* 

there  is  some  degree  of  hn;;;>: -K-SS  ;  there  are  enjoyments 
suited  to  tru- .dii.  ;wers  oi'  feding  ;  -.uicl  earth,  and 

air,  and  water,  are,  witii  magnificent  liberality,  ma  i'e  10 
teem  vv  ith  1> 

Let  thos-  striking  displa\  s  of  Creating  Goodness  call 
forth,  on  oin  part,  rr^ponsiv-  low,  gratitude,  and  venera- 
tion. Tr>  this  great  F:uK-r  of  all  existence  ars-i  lit.-.,  to  riun 
who  hath  r.j;  h.  h  •!.)  the  lig<»t  of  day,  ^M  i  to 

enj.>y  'ill  tne  comforts  wh'ch  ins  world  presents,  ft  our 
heail"»scnd  Uvth  a  p--rn  taal  hymn  ot  f>nus-.  .  Kvoniti^  a?jd 
morning  let  us  i  Him,  who  n»  -^  th  t  e  morning- 

and  the  cvc-uing  tf»  ^  '>  ^-dpenrt!| 

h,s  h  aid,  and  sati  ;t    every  living  tl'i  »>j.f> 

Let  us  rejoice,  iiia-1    \\  e  ar  ;  world,  winch  is 

-L  ,  liiit^  C»o  •- i'«r  which  t  Su- 

C(iiivinced  th;»t  tu-*  a  r  MI  not 
h;ch  he  nath  made,  nor  hath  bn>i;;du  creatures 
into  existence,  tin  /rely  to  suffer  unru-grssary  j..ain,  let  us, 
even  in  th-  midst  oi  "sorrow,  recdtvVuWh  caltn  suouiisb:  -n, 
whatever  he  is  pleased  to  send  ;  thankful  for  what  he  be- 
stows ;  and  satisfied,  that  without  good  reason,  he  takes  no- 

_>  away. 

P  It  is  not  in  the  tremendous  appearances  of  power  IT 
ly,  that  a  good  and  well-instructed  man  b;  holds  the  Crea- 
tor of  the  world.  In  the  Constant  and  regular  working  of 
his  hands,  in  the  silent  operations  of  his  wisobrh  and  good- 
ness, ever  going  on  throughout  nature,  he  delighVs  to  con- 
tep.iji'  '  :iud  adore  him.  This  is  one  of  the  chief  fruits  to 
be  derived  from  that  mon?  perfect  knowledge  of  thu-  Crea- 
tor, which  is  imparted  to  us  l*y  the  Christian  revelation* 
Impressing  our  minds  with  a  just  sense  of  all  his  attrihut  s, 
as  not  wise  and  great  only,  but  as  gracious  ^nd  merciful, 
let  it  lead  us  to  view  every  object  of  calm  and  undisturbed 
nature,  with  a  perpetual  reference  to  its  Author.  We  shall 
then  behold  all  the  scenes  which  the  heave-ns  and  the  earth 
present,  with  more  refined  feelings,  and  sublirner  emotions, 
than  they  who  regard  them  solely  as  objects  of  curiosity, 
or  amusement.  Nature  will  appear  animated  and  enliven- 
ed, by  the  presence  of  its  Author.  When  the  sun  rises  or 
sets  in  the  heavens,  when  spring  paints  the  earth,  when 
summer  shines  in  its  glory,  when  auiumn  pours  lor;h  its 
fruits,  or  winter  returns  in  its  awiul  forms,  we  shall  view 


Sequel  t ft  the  English  Reader* 

the  Creator  manifesting  himself  in  his  works  We  shall* 
nuet  his  piest  nee  in  the  fit  Ids.  We  shall  feel  his  iniliunce 
in  the  cheering  beam.  We  shall  hear  his  voice  in  the  wird* 
We  shall  behold  ourselves  every  where  surrounded  with 
the  glorx  of  th:it  universal  spirit,  who  fills,  pi  rvad<  s,  and 
upholds  all.  We  shall  live  in  the  world  as  in  a  great  and 
august  temple,  where  the  presence  of  the  Divimu  who  in- 
habits it,  inspires  d>.  votion.  *  VLAHI, 

SECTION  x. — The  benefits  of  religious  retirement* 

AN  entire  retreat  from  worldly  affairs,  is  not  what  reli- 
gion requires  ;  nor  doc  s  it  even  enjoin  a  great  retreat  from 
them.  Some  stations  of  life  u  ould  not  permit  this;  and 
there  are  few  stations  which  render  it  ntcessary.  The  chief 
field,  both  of  tlv  duty  and  of  the  improvement  of  man,  lies 
in  active  life.  B\  thr  graces  and  virtues  which  he  exercisci 
amidst  his  fallow  creatures,  he  is  trained  up  lor  luavtn. 
A  total  retreat  frcyn  the  world,  is  so  far  from  being  ihc 
perfection  of  n-Ugirni^iijf,  sonv  particular  cases  exceptcd, 
•:K)  other  than  the  abuse  of  it. 

But.  entire   retreat  would  lay  us  aside  from  the 

•>art  from  wjiich  Providence  chiefly  intended  us,   it  is 
in,  that,  without  occasional   retirement,  we  must  act 
*»rt  very  HUf  There  will  be  neither  consistency  in  the  con- 
duct, nor  digkity  in  the  character,  of  one  who  sets  apart  no 
share  of  hisnime  for  meditation  and  reflection.    In  the  heat 
and  bustle  oi  n  is  ev<  ry  moment  throwing 

false  colours  us,  nothing  can  be  \  lew- 

ed  in  \\  just  ii^lit.  II  v  c  wi^h  »hat -reason  slmuld  exert  her 
native  j  must  step  aside  from  the  crov  d,  K..O  the 

cool  and  silent  fchade.  It  it>  there  that,  with  sober  and  stea- 
dy eve,  she  examines  what  is  good  or  ill,  what  is  \vibc  or 
foolish,  in  human  conduct ;  sru  looks  back  on  the  past,  she 
looks  forward  to  the  luuire  ;  and  forms  plans,  not  ior  the 
present  moment  only,  but  for  th,  whole  of  life.  Ho\\  should 
that  man  discharge  any  part  of  bis  dutv  aright,  who  n-ver 
suiier->  -ias  p<issions  to  cooi  ?  and  how  should  his  passions 
cool,  who  is  engaged,  without  interruption,  in  the  tumult 
of  the  world  ?  This  incessant  stir  may  be  called,  the  perpe- 
tual drunkenness  of  life.  It  raises  that  eager  fermentaMon 
of  spirit,  which  will  be  ever  st-nciing  forth  the  dangerous 
iiuues  of  rashness  and  folly.  Whereas  he  who  mingles  re- 


Promtsaiou*_  Pircet.  1 Sf 

ligious  retreat  with  wot  idly  affairs,  n  mains  calm,  and  mas* 
tt-r  ot  hitUM-li.  He  is  not  whirled  round,  and  rendered  gid- 
dy DV  the  agitation  of  the  vvorld  ;  hui  from  that  s  u  nd  re- 
tiivuKnt,  in  which  hr  has  been  convc-rs .iiu  amonjr  higher 
obji  cts,  com.-s  torth  into  the  world  with  manly  tr.wqiulity, 
fortifi  -1  by  the  pnnciph-s  which  he  has  form  d,  and  pre- 
pared ior  \vh-Mevcr  may  befall. 

As  IK  who  is  unacqu  m»ud  with  retreat,  cannot  sustaim 
uny  character  with  propn*  ly,  so  neither  c;m  lie  enjoy  the 
world  with  any  advantage.  Of  the  two  classes  of  men  who 
are  most  apt  to  he  iK'giigt  in  to  this  duty,  the  men  of  plea- 
sure, and  the  men  oi  husiness,  it  is  hard  to  say  which  suf- 
fer most,  in  point  of  enjoyment,  from  that  neglect.  To  the 
former,  every  moment  Appears  to  he  lost,  which  partakes 
not  oi  the  vivacity  of  amusement.  To  connect  one  plan  of 
gaiety  with  another,  is  their  whole  study  ;  till,  in  a  very  short 
time,  nothing  remains  but  to  tread  the  same  beaten  round  ; 
to  enjoy  what  they  have  already  enjoyed,  and  to  see  what 
they  have  often  seen.  Pleasures  thus  drawn  to  the  dregst 
become  vapid  and  tastel  ss.  What  might  have  pleased 
long,  if  enjoyed  with  temperance,  and  mingled  with  retire* 
m  nt,  being  devoured  with  such  eager  haste,  speedily  sur- 
feits and  disgusts.  Hence  these  are  the  persons,  who,  after 
having  run  through  a  rapid  course  of  pleasure,  after  having 
glittered  for  a  few  years  in  the  foremost  line  of  public 
amusements,  are  the  mo*t  apt  to  fly  at  last  to  a  melancholy 
retrea:  ;  not  led  by  religion  or  reason,  but  driven  by  disap- 
Kjxrinted  hopes  and  exhausted  spirits,  to  the  pensive  couclu- 
pttion,  that  u  all  is  vanity." 

If  uninterrupted  intercourse  with   the  world   wears  out 
K  *\\\  •  man  of  pleasure,  it  no  less  oppresses  the  man  of  busi» 
n<iss  \\\(\   ambitioii.      The  strongest   spirits  must  at  length 
sink  under  it.    The  happ&st  temper  must  be  soured  bv  in- 
cessant  returns  of  the  opposition,  the  inconstancy,  and  trea- 
k^hery  of  men.   For  he  who  lives  always  in  the  bustle  of  the 
:wo*ld,   lives  in  a  perpetual  warfare.      Here,  an  enemy  en* 
fqunters ;  there,  a  rival  supplants  him.    The  ingratitude  of 
5a  friend  stings  him  this  hour;  and  the  pride  of  a  su;  crior 
wounds  him  the  next.     In  vain  he  flies  for  relief  to  trifling 
amusements.   These  may  affor  i  a  temporary  opiate  to  t  ?re; 
bui  they  communicate  no  strength  to  the   mind.      On  the 
.irv,  they  leave  it  more  soil  ana  defenceless^  when 
injuries  renew  their  attack. 


138 


Sequel  to  the  English  Reader* 


Let  him   who   wishes    for    an   «  II  c  uinl    cure  to   all    the 
Wf.iinds  which  tin-  wo,  la  e    n  inflict,  ,m  mu  r 

mn  to  intercourse  vvitn  his  C^  ..lor.    \\  iu  n  h. 
in'.-  Ins  closet,  and  shuts  th<    <iooi,   1,  t  him  shut  out 
S'-ifp.    fm<  .  all  intrusion  ot  worldh    care;  and  dwell  ymong 

•i. — Thos.    ian   piosj  i  , 

dei  and  prace,  shall  there  op  n  to  his  vit-u,  \»  Inch  ir>rm  the 
ni'tsi  perfect   t  to   the  conlusion  nnci  misery  ot    this 

earth.       I  h-    u'leslial  inh  tenants  quarrel  not  ;  amot»y- 
there  is  neith^  '  .udv,   norenvs,   nor   tumult.      Mtn 

may  harrass  one  anotr.r;    but   in   th<-    kingdom  of   h 
concord   and    tranquJity  reign    for   i  \\  r. — From    such  ob- 

thert   beanie  upon  the  -mind  ot  the  pious  man, 
an<i  enlivening  light ;  th«  re  is  diflfust  d  over  his  hi-ait  a  ho- 
1\   c.:l'i».     His  spirit  rea«»Mim<  s  its  iiitnness  and  re- 

.  'I'm  world  sinks  in  its  importance  ;  and 
the  load  of  mortality  and  misery  loses  almost  all  its  weight. 
The  "  green  p  «stures"  open,  and  the  u  still  waters"  liow 
around  him,  besidt  which  the  lfc  Shepherd  of  Israel"  guides 
his  flock.  The  disturbances  and  al.«rms,  so  iormichible  to 
those  u  ho  are  rngaged  in  the  tumults  ot  the  world,  seem 
to  him  only  like  thunder  rolling  afar  off,  like  the  noise  of 
distant  waters,  whose  sound  he  hears,  whose  course  he 

5,  but  whose  w.ivi  s  touch  him  not. 
As  religion*   ittirenunt   is   thus   evidently 
€>ur  happimrs^  in  this  lite,  so  it   is  absolutely 
order  to  r  the  life  to  come.     H 

r  live  to  his  own  soul. 
e  with  the  world,  is,  in  se 
'  ice,   From 
_     hear  riche1 

possessions  of  m  .n  ;   and    pr< 
aim  of  o..r  future  pursuits.    V\  inniup 

admirati^ta  i^n.Jthe  Hattering  math*  of  distinction  which 
bestow.  'j\  th«»se  fancied  blessings',  we  see  the  m 

litu  <e  around  us  eng(  r  and  tVrvtnt.  Principle  s  ot  dim  , 
STJ.IV,  perh.ips,  hear  sometimes  inculcated  ;  but  we  seldom 
behold  them  brought  into  competition  with  worldly  pntfit. 
The  soft  names,  and  plausible  colours,  under  which  deceit, 
Sensuality,  and  revenge,  are  presented  to  us  in  common  dis- 
course weaken  by  degrees,  our  natural  sense  of  the  distinc- 
tion1 between  good  and  evii.  We  often  meet  with  crimes 


n 

tion  and 
an  <  due 
custonu 


ucive  to 
sary  in 
ves  al- 


are  ac 

led  as  the  chie 
s  iht    prii 
dflpok  with 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  139 

authorized  by  high  examples,  and  rewarded  with  the  ca- 
ress-- and  smiles  o*  tnr  world.  Thus  breathing  habitually 
a  contagious  air,  how  certain  is  our  ruin,  unless  we  some- 
times retreat  from  this  pestilential  region,  and  seek  for  pro- 
per correctives  of  the  disorders  which  are  contracted  there! 
Religious  retirement  both  abates  the  disease,  and  furnishes 
the  remedy.  It  lessens  the  corrupting  influence  of  the  world; 
and  it  gives  opportunity  for  better  principles  to  exert  their 
power.  Solitude  is  the  hallowed  ground  which  religion  hath, 
in  every  age,  chosen  for  her  own.  There,  her  inspiration  is 
felt,  and  her  secret  mysteries  elevate  the  soul ;  there,  falls 
the  tear  of  contrition  ;  there,  rises  towards  heaven  the  sigk 
of  the  heart ;  there,  melts  the  soul  with  all  the  tenderness 
of  devotion,  and  pours  itself  forth  before  him  who  made4 
and  him  who  redeemed  it.  How  can  any  one  who  is  unac- 
quainted with  such  employments  of  mind,  be  fit  for  heaven? 
If  heaven  be  the  habitation  of  pure  affections,  and  of  intel- 
lectual joy,  can  such  a  state  be  relished  by  him  who  is  al- 
ways immersed  among  sensible  objects,  and  has  never  ac- 
quired any  taste  for  the  pleasures  of  the  understanding,  and 
the  heart? 

The  great  and  the  worthy,  the  pious  and  the  virtuous, 
have  ever  been  addicted  to  serious  retirement.  It  is  the 
characteristic  of  little  and  frivolous  minds,  to  be  wholly  oc- 
cupied with  the  vulgar  objects  of  life.  These  fill  up  their 
desires,  and  supply  all  the  entertainment  which  their  coarse 
apprehensions  can  relish.  But  a  more  refined  and  enlarg- 
ed mind  leaves  the  world  behind  it,  feels  a  call  for  higher 
pleasures,  and  seeks  them  in  retreat.  The  man  of  public 
spirit  has  recourse  to  it,  in  order  to  form  plans  for  general 
good  ;  the  man  of  genius,  in  order  to  dwell  on  his  favourite 
themes  ;  the  philosopher,  to  pursue  his  discoveries;  the 
saint,  to  improve  himself  in  grace.  u  Isaac  went  out  to  me- 
ditate in  the  fields,  at  the  evening  tide.'5  David,  amidst  all 
the  splendour  of  royalty,  often  bears  witness  both  to  the 
pleasures  which  he  received,  and  to  the  benefit  which  he 
reaped,  from  devout  meditation.  Our  blessed  Saviour  him- 
self, though  of  all  who  ever  lived  on  earth,  he  needed  least 
the  assistance  of  religious  retreat,  yet,  by  his  frequent  prac- 
tice, has  done  it  signal  honour.  Often  were  the  garden,  the 
mountain,  and  the  silence  of  the  night,  sought  by  him,  for 


Sequel  to  the  English  Rc~ 

intercourse  with  Heaven.  "  When  he  had  sent  the  multi- 
tude away,  he  went  up  into  a  mountain,  apart,  to  . 

The  \vorl-i  \*  the  giv.it  d^  ,  liosc  .ailucious  a 

highly  impoiis  us  to  detect.      But  in  the  imtlsi  of  its  ; 
sures  and  pui  suits,  tne  detection  is  impossible.     We  i> <  ,d, 
as  wit.  in  an  enchanted   circle,  vvhcre  nothing  appears  ab  it 
truly  is.   It  is  <.is!y  i;>  that  the  charm  can  be  broken. 

Diet  int  n  employ  that  retreat,  not  in  carrying  on  tin  u  lu- 
sion  which  the  world  has  begun,  not  in  ioimmg  plans  of 
imaginary  bliss,  but  in  st  g  the  happiness  \>nici, 

world  affords  to  a  strict  discussion,  the  spell  would  d 
and  in   the  room  ol    the  unreal   prospects,  which   had  long 
amu.^a  them,  ihc  r.  ui  the  world  would  appear. 

Let  us  j  .,  to  encounter  the  light  of 

truth;  and  resolve  rather  to  bi  ar  the  disappointment  of 
SGI-  .  ih.pcs,  tii  uiier  forever  in  the  para- 

disc  oi  i'-ol«*.  W.'.il.  i>tlii  ,  s  meditate  in  secret  on  the  means 
of  attaining  worldly  succv  ss,  irt  it  be  our  employment  to 
scrutinize  that  success  itself.  Lev  us  calculate  iuirly  to  what 
it  auiounts;  and  whether  we  are  not  -n  ihe  whole, 

\  by  our  Apparent  gam.   I.ct  us  I  >^k  back  lor  this  purpose  on 
our  p>;st  iiK.   Let  u-  tra  youth;  and 

put  the  question  to  <•  jiest 

pet  .  or  those 

of  inuigu-  ?     ilas  om    ual  enjoyment  uni- 

formly kejvt  pace  with  what  tl  •«.>  •    As 

we  aovancv.  alth  or  station,  did  w\    pioporiioric.iiy 

advance  m  hrtppnu.-sf  Mas  success,  almost  in  c.ny  one  in- 
staiuc,  fudiilcU  our  expectations  :  Whcic  we  i  I  up- 

on most  enjovment,  have  we  not  oittn  iound  least?    Wher- 
ever guilt  entered   into  pleasure,  did   not  its  sting  long  re- 
main,  after  the  gratification  was  past: — Such  question 
these,   candidly  answered,   would   in    a  great  measure  un- 
mask the  world.   TV.  r|  expose  the  vanity  ot  its  ; 
tentions  ;  ami  convince  us,  that  there  are  other  springs  than 
those  which  the  world  ailoros,  to  which  we  must  apply  for 
happiness. 

While  we  commune  with  our  heart  concerning  what  the 
world  now  is,  let  us  consider  also  what  it  will  one  day  ap- 
pear to  be.  Let  us  anticipate  the  awful  moment  oi  our  bid- 
ding it  an  a  .irewdl ;  and  think,  what  rtflcctjoaaswrill 
uiost  probabl"  arise,  when  we  are  qmttintf  the  field. 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  141 

looking  back  on  the  scene  of  action.  In  what  light  will  our 
closing  eyes  contemplate  those  v  uiities  which  now  shine  so 
bright,  an^i  those  interests  which  now  swell  into  such  high 
importance?  What  part  shall  we  then  wish  to  have  acted? 
M  hat  will  then  appear  momentous,  what  trifling,  in  human 
conduct? — Let  the  sober  sentiments  which  such  anticipa- 
tions fiug,;^:,  temper  now  our  misplaced  ardour.  Let  the 
last' conclusions  which  we  shull  form,  enter  into  the  present 
estimate  which  we  make  of  the  svorld,  and  of  lite. 

Moreover,  in  communing  with  ourselves  concerning  the 
world,  let  us  contemplate  it  as  subject  to  the  Divine  domi- 
nion. The  greater  part  of  men  behold  nothing  more  than 
the  rotation 'of  human  affairs.  They  see  a  great  crowd  ever 
in  motion  ;  the  fortunes  of  men  alternately  rising  and  fall- 
ing ;  virtue  often  distressed,  ajid  prosperity  appearing  to  be 
the  purchase  of  wordly  wisdom.  But  this  is  only  the  out- 
side of  things:  behind  the  cumin,  there  is  a  far  greater 
scene,  which  is  beheld  by  none  but  the  retired,  religious 
spectator.  If  we  lift  up  that  curtain,  when  we  are  alone 
with  God,  and  view  the  world  with  die  eye  of  a  Christian ; 
we  shall  see,  that  while  u  man's  heart  deviseth  his  way,  it 
is  the  Lord  who  directeth  his  step  "  We  shall  see,  that 
however  men  appear  to  move  and  act  after  their  own  plea- 
sure, they  are,  nevertheless,  retained  in  secret  bonds  by  the 
Almighty,  and  all  their  operations  rendered  subservient  to 
the  ends  of  his  moral  government.  We  shall  behold  him 
obliging  "  the  wrath  of  man  to  praise  him  ;"  punishing  the 
sinner  by  means  of  his  own  iniquities  ;  from  the  trials  of 
the  righteous,  bringing  forth  their  reward;  and  to  a  state 
of  seeming  universal  confusion,  preparing  the  wisest  and 
most  equitable  issue.  While  the  fashion  u  of  this  world"  is 
passing  fast  away,  we  shall  discern  the  glory  of  another  ris- 
ing to  succeed  it.  We  shall  behold  all  human  events,  our 
griefs  and  our  joys,  our  love  and  our  hatred,  our  character 
and  memory,  absorbed  in  the  ocean  of  eternity ;  and  no 
trace  of  our  present  existence  left,  except  its  being  for  ever 
"  well  with  the  righteous,  and  ill  with  the  wicked.'9 

BLAIR. 


['ION    XI.  — 


rein  ll.on,  t1 
thou  h;. 

It-    in   tli- 

. 

kes^bmomnai 

vernal  d^Ifcln  thy  .ads, 

tithes  the    health   oi    i 

>uth  perfumed  by 

breath   •  liction.  ipon   thy 

>s,  and  think  of  danger  or  misery  no   more.     \^ 
wilt  thou  not  partake  the  !  thou  bestow 

Why  shouldst  thou  ^nly  forbear  to   rejoice,  in  this  general 
felicity  ?      Why  should  be  clouded  with 

when  thi-  meanest  of  those  who  call  thee  sovereign,  gives 
KMb  day  to  festivity,  and  the  night  to  peace.  At  length,  Se- 
ged,  reflect  and  be  wise,  What  is  the  gift  of  conquest  but 
safety  ?  Why  are  riches  collected  but  to  purchase  happiness? 
Seged  then  ordered  the  house  of  pleasure,  built  iu  an 
island  of  the  lake  Dambea,  to  be  prepared  for  his  recep- 
tion. tc  I  will  retire,"  says  he,  "for  ten  days  from  tumult 
and  care,  from  councils  and  decrees.  Long  quiet  is  not  the 
lot  of  the  governors  of  nations,  but  a  cessation  oi  ten  days 
cannot  be  denied  me.  This  short  interval  of  happiness  may 
surely  be  secured  from  the  interruption  of  fear  or  perplex- 


Promiscuous 

ity,  sorrow  or  disappointment,  I  will  exclude  all  trouble 
from  my  abode,  and  remove  from  my  thoughts  whatever 
may  confuse  the  harmony  of  the  concert,  or  abate  the 
sweetness  of  the  banquet.  I  will  fill  the  whole  Capacity  of 
my  soul  with  enjoyment,  and  try  what  it  is  to  live  without 
a  wish  unsatisfied." 

Id  a  few  days  the  orders  were  performed,  and  Seged 
hasted  to  the  palace  of  Dambea,  which  stood  in  an  island 
cultivated  only  for  pleasure,  planted  with  every  flower  that 
spreads  its  colours  to  the  sunv  and  every  shrub  that  sheds 
fragrance  in  the  air.  In  one  part  of  this  extensive  garden, 
were  open  walks  for  excursions  in  the  morning;  in  another, 
thick  groves,  and  silent  arbours,  and  bubbling  fountains  for 
repose  at  noon.  All  that  coulcl  solace  the  sense,  or  flatter 
the  :i!i  that  industry  could  extort  from  nature,  or 

wealth  furnish  to  art;  all  that  conquest  could  seize,  or  be- 
neficence attract,  was  collected  together,  and  every  percep- 
tion of  delight  was  excited  and  gratified. 

Into  this  deliciou^  region  Seged  summoned  all  the  pei> 
•of  his  court,  who  seemed  eminently  qualified  to  re- 
ceivt-  or  communicate  pleasure.   His  call  was  readily  obey- 
ed;  tht  young,  the  fair,  the  vivacious,  and  the  witty,  were 
all" in  haste  to  be  sated  with  felicity.     They  sailed  jocund 
over  the  lake,  which  seemed   to  sino'oth  its  surface   before 
them  :  their  passage  was  cheered  with   music,  and  their 
.  he:uts  .dilated  with  expectation. 

Seged  landing  here  with  his  band  of  pleasure,  determin- 
ed from  that  hour  t«»  break  off  all  acquaintance  with  dis- 
content; to  give  his  heart  for  ten  d;*ys  to  ease  arid  jollity  ; 
and  then  to  fall  back  to  ihe  common  state  of  man,  and  suf* 
fer  his  life  to  be  diversified,  as  before,  with  joy  and  sorrow. 

He  immediately  entered  his  chamber,  to  consider  where, 
he  shoul  1  begin  his  circle  of  happiness.   He  had  all  tru 
lelight  before  him,  but  knew  not  whom  to  call,  s 
he  could  not  enjoy  one,  but  by  delaying  the  performance  of 
another ;  he  chose  and  rejected,  he  resolved  and  changed 
his  resolution,   till   his   faculties    were    harassed,   and    his 
thoughts  confused;  then  returned  to  the  apartment  wi 
his  presence  was  expected,  with  languid  eyes  and  eloi. 
^cnance,  and   spread  the  infection  of  uneasiness 
vholc  assembly.      He   observed    th<  ir  dej ,> 

was  oifsnded  ;  for  he  found  his  vexation  itoreasea  Uy 

-V'    •*<•-«.  * 


144  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

whom  he  expected  to  dissipate  arvl  relieve  it.  He  retired 
again  to  his  private  chamber,  and  sought  for  consolation  in 
his  own  mind  ;  one  thought  flowed  in  upon  another  ;  a  long 
succession  of  images  seized  his  attention  ;  the  moments 
crept  imperceptibly  away  through  the  gloom  of  pensive- 
ness,  till,  having  recovered  his  tranquilitv,  he  lifted  up  his 
head,  and  saw  the  lake  heightened  by  the  setting  sun.  u  Such" 
sai-i  Seged,  sighing,  "  is  the  longest  clay  of  human  existence: 
before  we  have  learned  to  use  it,  we  find  it  at  an  end/' 

The  regret  which  he  felt  for  the  loss  of  so  great  a  part  of 
his  first  day,  took  from  him  all  disposition  to  enjoy  the 
evening;  and  after  having  endeavoured,  for  the  sake  of  his 
attendants,  to  force  an  air  of  gaiety,  and  excite  that  mirth 
•which  he  could  not  share,  he  resolved  to  refer  his  hopes  to 
thr  next  morning;  and  lay  down  to  partake  with  the  slaves 
of  labour  and  poverty  the  blessings  of  s! 

He  rose  early  the  second  morning,  and  resolved  now  to 
be  happy.  He  therefore  fixeed  upon  the  gate  of  the  palace 
an  edict,  importing,  that  whoever,  during  nine  days,  should 
appear  in  the  presence  of  the  kin;;  with  counte- 

nance, or   utter   an    expression   of   discon-  *<••••  ovv, 

should  be  driven  for  ever  from  the  palace  ot  Dambea. 

This  edict  was  immediately  made  known  in  every  cham- 
of  the  court,  and  bower  of  the  gardens.  Mirth  was 
frighted  away,  and  they  who  were  before  dancing  in  the 
lawns,  or  singing  in  the  shades,  were  at  once  engaged  in 
the  care  of  regulating  their  looks,  that  Seged  might  find 
his  will  punctually  obeyed,  and  see  none  among  them  lia- 
ble to  banishment 

S^ged  r,o\v  met  every  face  settled  in  a  smile  ;  but  a  smile 
that  betrayed  solicitude,  timidity,  and  constraint.  He  ac- 
cost u  his  favourites  with  familiarity  and  softness  ;  but  they 
durst  not  speak  without  premeditation,  lest  they  should  be 
convicted  of  discontent  or  sorrow.  He  proposed  diversions^ 
to  which  no  objection  was  made,  because  objection  would 
have  implied  uneasiness  ;  but  they  were  regarded  with  in- 
diffVrence  by  the  courtiers,  who  hacj  no  other  desire  than 
to  signalize  themselves  by  clamarous  exultation.  He  offer- 
ed vinous  topics  of  conversation,  but  obtained  only  iorced 
.!>ori"Us  laughter;  nnd,  tuttr  man\  attempts  co 
hi>  train  to  confidence  and  al  is  o'l-^  d  to 

, tins-  If  the  impotence  of  command,  and  re 
Another  day  to  grief  ana  disappointment. 


Promiscuous  Pic  145 

• 

He  at  last  relieved  his  companions  from  their  ten 
and  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber,  t§  ascertain,  by  diffe- 
rent measures,  the  felicity  of  the  succeeding  days.  At  length 
he  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  and  closed  his  eyes  ;  but  ima- 
gined, in  his  sleep,  that  his  palace  and  gardens  were  over- 
whelmed by  an  inundation,  and  waked  with  all  the  t  rrors    ' 
of  a  man  struggling  in  the  water,      ile  composed   himself 
again  to  rest,  but  was  frighted  by  an  imaginary  irrupt' 
into  his  kingdom  ;  and  striving,  as  is  usual  in  dreams,  with- 
out ability  to  move,  fancied  himself  betrayed  to  his  enemies, 
and  again  started  up  with  horror  and  indignation. 

It  was  now  clay,  and  fear  was  so  strongly  impressed 
his  mind,  that  he  could  sleep  no  more.      He  rose,  but  his 
thoughts  were  filled  with  the  deluge  and  invasion  ;  nor  v 
he  able  to  disengage  his  attention,  or  "mingle-  with  vacancy 
and  ease  in  any  amusement*.     At  length  his  perturbation, 
gave  way  to  reason;  and  he  resolved  no  longer  to  be  har- 
assed   by  visionary   miseries  ;    but  before  this  r&solution 
could  be  completed,  half  the  day  had  elapsed,     fits  felt  a    * 
-new  conviction  of  the  uncertainty  of  human  schemes,  and   (j 
could  not  forbear  to  bewail  the  weakness  of  that  being',     I 
whose  quiet  was  to  be  interrupted  by  vapour i  of  the  fancy. 
Having  been  first  disturbed    by  a  dream,  he  afterwards 
grieved  that  a  dream  could  disturb  him.    He  at  last 
vered  that  his  terrors  and  grief  were  equally  ad 

that  to  lose  the  present  in. -lamenting  the  past,  was  volunta- 
rily to  protract  a  melancholy  vision.     The  third  day  was    i 
now  declining,  and  Seged  ,  again  resolved  to  be  ha 
the  morrow. 

SECTION  xii,— History  of  Seged  conti 
On  the  fourth  morning  Segt'd  rose  early,  r  with 

sleep,  vigorous  with  h  aith,  and  eager  with  expert  *ao5i, 
He  entered  the  garden,  a 

of  h;s  court ;  and  seeing  nothi  bui  airy 

fulness,  oegan  to  say  to  his  heart,  a  This  d  iv  shall  be  a  I 
of  pleasure."  The  sun  played  upon  the  wat  r,  the  birds  war 
bled  in  the  groves,  and  th^  gules  quivered  among  th< 
branches.  He  roved  froai  wn.ik  to  walk  as  chance  directec1 
hi  in  ;  and  sometimes,  li^txned  to  the  -OHUS,  so-neti.nea 
mingled  with  the  dancers,  >>  maimcs  id  loose  his  imug  tia 
tion  in  flights  of  merriment,  and  sometimes  uttered  gravfj 


the  ad- 

•  ti.m  uitb  whi(4)  they  were  receiv 
Thus  th'  .lied   on,  without  any 

i    or  intrusion  oi  m-.-l  mcholv  th  All  that  beheld 

•  nd  the  sight  of  hap- 
filled  his   heart  with  satisfac- 
liours  in  this  pleasing  luxury, 
he  i  .!  scream 

;i  out  of  the 

his 
not 
. 

rn- 

. 

.i6'e:*  at 

o  other 

tranquillity.      Ho   !;a:l,  how- 
t  bten  i 

.  ch 

,  ire  of  the  next  morn- 

his  penal  edict,  since  he/had  al- 

,  that  discontent  and  melancholy  were  not  to 

,     id  that  plea- 
n  con- 
ited  all  4. 

,  itry,  by  proposing,  prizes  for  those 

i!  I.  on  the   following  r!;iy,  distinguish  themselves 

-stive  performances  ;  th«:  ta')les  of  the  anti-ch 

•er  were  covered  with  g^l.l.  and  pearls,  an":!  robes  and  p-dr- 

j^C'Vcd  the  r  -vh'.i  could   refine  ele- 

r  heighten  pleasure. 

.At  this  display  <>f  riches  every  eye  immediately  sparkled, 

Busied  in  celebrating  tho  bounty  and 

,nce  cf  the  empe  when  Segcd  entered,  in 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  147 

hopes  of  uncommon  entertainment  from  universal  emula- 
tion, he  found  that  a<w  passion  too  strong] ^  agitated,  pats 
rn  end  to  that  tranquillity  which  is  neC'.-ssary  to  mirth  ;  and 
that  the  mind  th.it  is  to  he  moved  by  the  gentle  ventilations 
of  gaiety,  must  be  first  smoothed  by  a  total  c*lm.  What- 
ever we  ardently  wish  to  gain,  we  must,  in  the  same  de- 
gree, be  afraid  to  lose  ;  and  fear  and  plcr.i.-iare  cannot  .dwell 
together. 

All  was  now  care  and  solicitude.     Nothing  was  done  or 
spoken,  but  with  so  visible  a  it   perfection,  as 

always  failed  to  delight,  tho-  .ie times  forced  admi- 

ration :  and  Seged  could  not  rvt:  with  .sorrow,  that 

his  prizes  had  more  iiifluvfice  than  himself.  As  the  eve- 
ning- approached,  the  contest  gr^w  more  earnest  ;  and  those 
who  were  for.:e  i  to  allow  th\*  pselves  excelled,  began  to 
discover  the  malignity  of  def  at,  first  by  angrv  glances,  and 
at  last  by  contennp'uou.s  murmurs.  Seged  likewise  shared 
the  anxiety  of  the  «lav  ;  for  considering  himself  as  obliged 
to  distribute,  with  exact  justice,  the  prizes  which,  had  been 
so  zealously  sought,  he  durst  never  remit  his  attention,  but 
passed  his  time  upon  the  rack  of  doubt,  in  balancing  dif- 
ferent kin  Is  of  merit,  and  adjusting  the  claims  of  all  the 
competitors.  —  \t  last,  knowing  that  n  >  ex  icrriess  coald  sa- 
tisfy those  wh  )se  hopes  he  should  disappoint  ;  and  think- 
ing, that  on  a  day  set  apart  for  happiness,  it  would  be  cruel 
to  oppress  any  heart  with  sorrow  ;  he  declared  that  all  had 
pleased  him  alike,  and  dismissed  all  with  presents  of  equal 
value. 

Seged  soon  saw  that  his  caution  had  not  been  able  to 
avoid  offence.  They  who  had  believed  themselves  secure 
of  the  highest  prizes,  were  not  pleased  to  be  levelled  with 
the  crowd  ;  and  though  by  the  liberality  of  the  king,  they 
received  mor-  than  his  promise  had  entitled  them  to  ex- 
pect, they  departed  unsatisfied,  because  t  ley  were  honour- 
ed with  no  distinction,  and  wanted  an  opportunity  to  tri- 
umjn  in  me  mortification  of  their  opponents.  <4  Behold 
here,"  said  Seged,  *"  the  condition  of  him  who  places  his 
happiness  in  the  happiness  of  others."  He  then  retired  to 
meditate  :  and  while  the  courtiers  were  repining  at  his  dis- 
tributions, saw  the  fifth  sun  go  down  in  discontent. 

The  nex  dawn  renewed  his  resolution  to  be  happy.  But 
having  learned  how  little  he  could  effect  by  settled  schemes, 


148  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

or  preparatory  measures,  he  thought  it  best  to  give  up  one- 
day  c.-ntir-.-lo  to  chance,  and  left  every  one  to  please  <md  be 
pleased  in  his  o 

Th's  rel  <ularity  diflfu  K-ral  com 

sane*  through  the  whole-  t  uurt  :  and  the  emperor  imagined, 
that  lie  had  at  last  i\:  .ining  an  interval 

of  idicity.    But  as  he  was  roving  in  th  >\y 

with  equal  card  ssness,  he  overoeard  one  of  his  co.irtutrs 
in  a  ( 1  >-  irijour  murmuring  alone  :  k  3c- 

iiim  ?   a 

ni  n,  v\l  ,-     have   four  .cd, 

his  lux.  IUI> 

selv  ;fFected  him  ilie  mon-.  is  ut- 

:j'jm   he   had  rved   am 

tion  prompt- 
ed him  to  v  r,  that  whit  was  spoken 
without  intention  to  be  heard,  was  to  be  c*  i  as  on- 
ly thought,  «nd  was  perhaps  but  the  Jsudck,  •  casual 
and  temporary  vexation,  he  invented  some  decent  pretence 
to  send  tii ui  awa\ ,  that  his  retiviu  might  not  be  tainted  with 
the  breath  of  envy  ;  and  alter  the  struggle  oi  deliberation 
was  past,  and  all  desire  of  rev«-nge  utc  rly  suppressed,  pass- 
ed the  evening  not  only  with  tranquillity,  but  triumph, 
though  none  but  himself  was  conscious  of  the  victory. 

remembrance  of  this  clemency  cheered  the  begin- 
ning of  t  ith  day  ;  and  nothing  happened  to  disturb 
ure  of  Seged,  till  looking  on  the  tree  that  shaded 
him,  he  recollected,  that  under  a  tree  of  the  same  kind  he. 
had  passed  the  night  after  his  defeat  in  the  kingdom  of 
Goiuna.  The  reflection  on  his  loss,  his  dishonour,  and  the 
miseries  which  his  subjects  suffered  from  the  invader,  filled 
him  with  sadness.  At  last  he  shook  off  the  weight  of  sor- 
row, and  began  to  solace  himself  with  his  usual  pi. azures, 
when  hi-  tranquillity  was  again  disturbed  by  jealousies  which 
the  1  ite  contest  for  the  prizes  had  produced,  and  which, 
having  tried  to  pacify  them  by  persuasion,  he  was  forced 
to  silence  by  command. 

On  the  eighth   morning,  Seged  was  awakened  earl; 
an   unusual  harry  in  the  apartments  ;    and  inquiring  the 
cause,  he  was  told  that  the  Ppncess  Balkis  was  seiz 
sickness.     He  rose,  and  calling  the  physician^  found  that 
they  had  little  hope  of  her  recovery.     Here  was  an  end  of 


Promiscuous  Pi  I4t 

jollity:  all  his  thoughts  were  no\v  upun  his  daughter  ;  w!r 
eyes  Iv;  closed  upon  the  tenth  clay. 

*  Such  \VK?V  the  flays  which  Srgvd  of  Kthiopia  hncl  appro- 
priated to  a  snort  respiration  from,  the  fatigues  of  war,  and 
th"  cares  of  government.  This  narrat  \v  h     h  is  beqa  a  hed 
to  future  generations,  th-t  no  man  hen  after  m.>y  presume 
to  say,  "  This  day  shall  be  a  day  of  happiness." 

DR.  JOHNSON. 

SECTION  xin. —  The  Vision  of  Theodore,  the  hermit  of 
Teneriffe,  found  in  his  cell.* 

SON  of  perseverance,  whoever  thou  art,  whose  curiosity 
has  led  thee  hither,  read  and  be  wise.  He  that  now  calls 
upon  thee  is  Th«odore,  the  hermit  of  Tencriffe,  who,  ini 
the  fifty  seventh  year  of  his  retreat,  left  this  instruction  to 
mankind,  lest  his  solitary  hours  should  be  spent  in  vain. 

I  was  once  what  thou  art  now,  a  groveller  on  the  earth, 
and  a  gazer  at  the  sky  ;  I  trafficked  and  heaped  wealth  to- 
gether, I  loved  and  was  favoured,  I  wore  the  robe  of  ho- 
nour, and  heard  the  music  of  adulation  ;  I  was  ambitious, 
and  rose  to  greatness  ;  I  was  unhappv,  and  retired.  I 
sought  for  some  time  what  I  at  length  found  here,  a  place 
where  all  real  wants  might  be  easily  supplied  ;  and  where 
I  might  not  be  under  the  necessity  of  purchasing  the  assist- 
ance of  men,  by  the  toleration  of  their  follies.  Here  I  saw 
fruits,  and  herbs,  and  waLer ;  and  here  determined  to  wait 
the  hand  of  death,,  which  I  hope,  when  at  last  it  comes, 
will  fall  lightly  upon  me. 

Forty  eight  years  had  I  now  passed  in  forgetfulness  of 
all  mortal  cares,  and  without  any  inclination  to  wander 
farther  than  the  necessity  of  procuring  sustenance  requir- 
ed :  but  as  I  stood  one  day  beholding  the  rock  that  over- 
hangs my  cell,  I  found  in  myself  a  desire  to  climb  it  ;  and 
when  I  was  on  its  top,  was  in  the  same  manner  determin- 
ed to  stale  the  next,  till  by  degrees  I  conceived  a  wish  to 
view  the  summit  of  thr  mountain,  at  the  foot  of  which  I 
had  so  long  resided.  This  motion  of  my  thoughts  I  endea- 
voured to  suppress,  not  because  it  appeared  criminal,  but 

*  Dr.  Anderson,  in  his  judicious  and  well  written  life  of  Dr,  Johnson, 
says,  kk  This  is  a  inost  beautiful  allegory  of  human  life,  under  the  figure 

..ding-  ihe  Mountain  of  Existence.    Johnson  thought  it  the  best 
of  his  writings/' 


i50  iel  to  the  English  Reader. 

because  it  was  new  :  and   all  change,  not  evidently  for  th* 
be'tcr,  alar-  i  t-. light  by  experience  to  cli-trusi  iiself. 

I  lyas  often  .  hind  thai   my  h  \  deceiving  mc  ;   that 

my  impatience  ot  confine 03 en t  rose  from  earthly  pas- 
and  that  my  ardour  to  survey  the  works  of  nature,  was  on' 
ly  a  hidden  longing  to   mingle  once  again  in  the  scenes  of 
life.      I  therefore  end(  avourcd   to  settle   my  thoughts   into 
their  former  state  ;    but   found  their  distraction  every 
greater.   1  was  always  reproaching  myself  with  the  want  of 
happiness  withn  <h  ;    and  at  last  began  to  question 

whether  it  was  not  laziness,  rather  than  caution,  that  re- 
s trained  me  from  climbing  to  thd  summit  of  Tenerifle. 

I  rose  therefore  before  the  day,  and  began  my  joi,; 
up  the  steep  of  the  mountain  ;  but  I  had  not  advanced  far, 
old  as  I  was,  and  burdened  with  provisions,  when  the  day 
began  to  shine  upon  me  ;  the  declivities  grew  more  preci- 
pitous, and  the  sand  slided  from  beneath  my  fret :  at  last, 
tainting  with  labour,  I  arrived  at  a  small  plain  almost  en- 
closed by  rocks,  and  open  only  to  the  east.  I  sat  down  to 
rest  a  while,  in  full  persuasion  that  when  I  had  recovered 
my  strength,  1  should  proceed  on  my  design:  but  when 
once  I  had  tasted  ease,  I  found  many  reasons  against  dis- 
turbing it.  The  branches  spread  a  shade  over  my  head, 
and  the  gales  of  spring  wafted  odours  to  my  bosom. 

As  1  sat  thus,  forming  alternately  excuses  for  delay,  and 
resolutions  to  go  forward,  an  irresistible  heaviness  suclutn- 
ly  surprised  me.  I  laid  my  head  upon  the  bank,  and  re- 
signed myself  to  sleep  j  when  methought  I  heard  the  sound 
as  of  the  flight  of  eagles,  and  a  being  of  more  than  human 
dignity  stood  before  me.  While  I  was  deliberating  how  to 
address  him,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  with  an  air  of  kind- 
ness, and  asked  me  solemnly,  but  without  severity,  "The- 
odore, whither  art  thou  going?  I  am  climbing,  answered 
I,  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  to  enjoy  a  more  extensive 
prospect  of  the  works  of  nature,  u  Attend  first,"  said  he, 
**  to  the  prospect  which  this  place  affords,  and  what  thou 
dost  not  understand  I  will  explain.  1  am  one  of  the  bene- 
volent beings  who  watch  over  the  children  of  the  dust,  to 
preserve  them  from  those  evils  which  will  not  ultimately 
terminate  in  good,  and  which  they  do  not,  by  their  own 
faults,  bring1  upon  themselves.  Look  round  therefore  with- 
out fear :  observe,  contemplate,  and  be  instructed." 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  151 

Encouraged  by  this  assurance,  1  looked  and  beheld  a 
mountain  higher"  than  TenerifFe,  to  the  summit  of  which 
the  human  eve  could  never  reach.  When  I  had  tired  my- 
self with  gazing- upon  its  height,  I  turned  my  eyes  toward 
its  foot,  which  I  could  easily  discover,  but  was  amazed  to 
find  it  without  foundation,  and  placed  inconceivably  in  emp- 
tiness and  darkness.  Thus  I  stood  terrified  and  confused  ; 
above  were  tracts  inscrutable,  and  below  was  total  vacuity, 
But  my  protector,  with  a  voice  of  admonition,  cried  out, 
14  Theodore  be  not  affrighted,  but  raise  thy  eyes  again  :  the 
mountain  of  Existence  is  before  thee;  survey  it  and  be  wise." 

I  then  looked  with  more  deliberate  attention,  and  observ- 
ed the  bottom  of  the  mountain  to  be  of  a  gentle  rise,  and 
overspread  with  flowers  ;  the  middle  to  be  more  steep,  em- 
barrassed with  crags,  and  interrupted  by  precipices,  over 
which  hung  branches  loaded  with  fruits,  and  among  which 
were  scattered  palaces  and  bowers.  The  tracts  which  my 
eye  could  reach  nearest  the  iop,  were  generally  barren ;  but 
there  were  among  the  clefts  of  the  rocks  a  few  hardy  ever- 
greens, which,  though  they  did  not  give  much  pleasure  to 
the  sight  or  smell,  yet  seemed  to  cheer  the  labour  and  faci- 
litate the  steps  of  those  who  were  clambering  among  them. 

Then,  beginning  to  examine  more  minutely  the  different 
parts,  I  observed  at  a  great  distance  a  multitude  of  both 
sexes,  issuing  into  view  from  the  bottom  of  the  mountain. 
Their  first  actions  I  could  not  accurately  discern  :  but,  as 
they  every  moment  approached  nearer,  I  found  that  they 
amused  themselves  with  gathering  flowers,  under  the  su* 
perintendance  of  a  modest  virgin  in  a  white  robe,  who 
seemed  not  over  solicitous  to  confine  them  to  any  settled 
place  or  certain  track  ;  for  she  knew  that  the  whole  ground 
was  smooth  and  solid,  and  that  they  could  not  easily  be 
hurt  or  bewildered.  When,  as  it  often  happened,  they  pluck> 
ed  a  thistle  for  a  flower,  Innocence,  so  was  she  called, 
would  smile  at  the  mistake.  Happy,  said  I,  are  they  who 
are  under  so  gentle  a  government,  and  yet  are  safe.  Bui  I 
had  no  opportunity  to  dwell  long  on  the  consideration  of 
their  felicity  ;  for  I  found  that  Innocence  continued  her  at- 
tendance but  a  little  way,  and  seemed  to  consider  only  the 
flowery  bottom  of  the  mountain  as  her  proper  province. 
Those  whom  she  abandoned  scarcely  knew  that  they  were 

13 


152  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

left,  before  they  perceived  themselves  in  the  hands  of  Edu- 
cation, a  nymph  moj  in  her  as,, .a,  and  nupenous 
in  her  commands,  who  confine J  them  to  cerium  paths,  in 
their  opinion  too  narrow  and  too  rou^h.  Tin  se  th  y  were 
continually  solicited  to  lutve,  hy  Appetit  -,  whom  Educa- 
tion could  ncvnr  tri-ht  awa\,  though  she  sometimes  awed 
her  to  such  turn  lily,  tint  the  effects  of  her  presence  were 
scarcely  perceptible.  Some  went  b.'ck  to  thi  first  part  of 
the  mountain,  and  seemed  desirous  of  continuing  busied  in 
plucking  flowers,  but  wen  n,»  longer  guarded  bv  innocence; 
and  such  as  Education  could  not  foice  back, proceeded  up 
the  mountain  by  some  miry  road,  in  uhich  they  were  sel- 
dom seen,  and  scaro  K  e\vr  regarded. 

As  E-iiuation  led  her  troo(,  up  the  mountain,  nothing 
was  mori  obseiva:>le  than  that  she.  was  frequently  giving 
thv  in  cautions  10  beware  of  Habits  ;  and  was  calling  oul  to 
one  or  another,  t  -  ver\  st,  p,  that  a  il  .bit  u  as  ensnaring 
them  ;  that  they  would  be  under  the  dominion  of  Habit  be- 
fore they  perceived  their  dang<  r  ;  and  that  those  whom  a 
Habit  should  once  subdue  had  little  hope  of  regaining  their 
lib*  ny. 

Ot  this  cau'ion,  so  frequently  repeated,  I  was  very  soli- 
citous to  know  the  reason,  when  my  protector  directed  my 
i,d  to  a  troop  of  pygmies,  which  appeared  to  ualk  silent- 
ly bt-f  >re  those  that  wi  re  rhmbing  the  mountain, and  each  to 
smooth  the  \vav  before  her  iollower.  I  found  that  I  had  miss- 
ed tin-  notice  of  them  before,  bothbecaus  they  were,  so  mi- 
nute as  not  easily  to  be  discerned,  and  because  they  grew  eve- 
ry moment  nearer  in  their  colour  -o  tne  objects  witn  which 
they  were  surrounded.  As  the  followers  ot  Education  did 
not  appear  to  be  stnsibK  ot  the  presence  ot  these  danger- 
ous associates,  or,  ridiculing  their  diminutive  size,  did  not 
think  it  possible  that  human  btings  shcuhl  e\v  r  be  brought 
into  subjection  by  enemies  so  feeble,  they  generally  heard 
her  precepts  of  vigilance  with  winder  :  and,  when  they 
thought  her  eye  withdrawn,  treated  them  with  contempt. 
.Nor  could  I  myself  think  her  cautions  so  necessary  as  her 
frequent  inculcations  seemed  to  suppose,  till  I  observed 
that  each  of  these  petty  beings  held  secretly  a  chain  in  her 
hand,  with  which  she  prepared  to  bind  those  whom  she 
found  within  h^r  power.  Yet  these  Habits,  u^.der  the  eye 
of  Education,  went  quietly  forward,  and  seemed  very  little 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  153 

to  increase  in  bulk  or  strength  ;  for  though  they  were  al- 
wavs  Billing  to  join  with  Appetite,  \etwlien  Education 
kept  them  apart  fYma  her,  they  would  v-  ry  punetiully  u'.ey 
command,  and  make  ilv  narrow  roads  in  \viiich  chev  were 
confined  easier  and  smoother. 

It  v  as  oha-.  rvablr  mat  iru  ir  stature  was  never  at  a  stand, 
but  contiiui.ilh  growing  or  (U  cn-asin.^,  yet  not  alway*  in  the 
same  proportion:  nor  couU  I  foil)*,  ar  to  express  my  ad- 
miration, \vh*:n  *  s«w  in  rurv  much  less  time  they  general- 
ly gained  iha.i  lost  bulk.  Though  thrv  grew  slowly  in  the 
road  of  Education,  it  might  however  be  perceived  that  they 
grew  ;  but  it'  they  once  deviate ;l  at  the  call  of  A])petite, 
their  stature  S<K>U  becam--  gigantic:  ;  and  their  strength  was 
siu'h  th.it  Ed-ica'-ion  pointed  out  to  her  tribe  many  that 
Vv'ere  led  in  jh/ms  hv  ihem,  whom  she  could  ne.ver  more 
rescue  (Voni  t»ieir  slivery.  She  point*  d  them  out,  but  with 
little  effect;  for  all  her  pupils  appeared  confident  oi  their 
own  superiority  to  .he  strong -jht  Habit,  and  some  seemed 
in  secret  to  regr-.-t  that  they  were  hindered  from  following 
the  triumph  of  Appetite. 

It  was  the  pi  c  iliar  artifice  of  Habit  not  to  suffer  her  pow- 
er to  be  felt  \t  first.  Those  whom  sb  led,  she  had  ihe  ad- 
dress of  appearing  only  to  attciv!,  but  was  continually  doub- 
ling her  chains  upon  her  companions  which  were  so  blee- 
der in  themselves,  and  so  silently  fastened,  that  while  the 
attention  was  engaged  by  other  objects,  thev  were  not  easily 
perceived.  Each  link  grt  w  lighter  as  it  had  been  longer 
worn  ;  and  when,  by  continual  additions,  thev  becamt-  so 
heavy  as  to  be  felt,  they  were  very  frequently  too  stiong 
to  be  broken. 

When  Education  had  proceeded  in  this  manner,  to  the 
part  of  the  mountain  v/here  the  declivity  beg.ai  to  ^ro\v 
craggy,  she  resigned  her  charge  to  two  powers  or  superior 
aspect.  The  meaner  of  them  appeared  capable  of  presiding 
in  senates,  or  governing  nations,  and  yet  watched  the  steps 
of  the  other  with  the  most  anxious  attention  ;  and  was  vi- 
sibly confounded  and  perplexed,  if  ever  she  suffered  her 
regard  to  be  drawn  away.  The  other  seemed  to  approve 
her  submission  as  pleasing,  but  with  such  a  condescension 
as  plainly  showed  that  she  claimed  it  as  due  ;  and  indeed 
so  grt^at  was  her  dignity  and  sweetness,  that  he  who  would 
not  reverence,  must  not  behold  her. 


*  54  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

'  Theodore,"  saiu   my  protector,   «  be  fearless,  and  be 

wise;   app>oach  th»se  poi  lose  dominion  extends  to 

all  the  rcmaining.part  of  the  .,n  of   Existence.  "    I 

trembled,   and    ventured    to    .  interior  nymph, 

whose  eyes,  piercing  and  awful,   I  was  not  able  to  sustain.' 

^  Bright  power,"  said  I,  ^  by  whatever  name  it  is  lawful  to 

•address   thee,   tell  me.   thoti  who   pi\sidest  here,  on  what 

..dition    thy   protection  \\ill    U    granted?''    "It  \\iil   be 

-k  only  to  oh,  1  am  Reason,  of 

all  subordinate  beings  the  noblest  DI  jf 

'  *"*••«  lt'Qf 

ni-v  .igion."   Charmed  by 

her  voice  and  aspect,  I  professed  my  r<  .uim«.*s  to  follow  her. 

She  then  present  {  UpOn 

me  with  tenderness.   I  b<  iitr  and  she  smii 


,   [OV   XIV.  -  7'/V  WW/2   $/' 

Wn  :vered   up  those   for  \.  ^pi- 

had  been  so  long  sol  id  ton*,  she  seemed  to  expect 

iess  some  gratitude   for  i:  or 

at  the  loss  of  ,<)n  which  she  had  hi- 

>ver,  by  the 

which  broke  out  at  her  departure,  that  her  presence 

had  been  long  displeasing,  and  that  she  had  been  teaching 

;e  who  felt  in  themselves  no  want  of  instruction.    They 

»ll  agreed  in  rejoicing  that  they  would  no  longer  be  subject 

to  her  caprices,  or  disturbed  by  her  documents,  but  should 

:io\v  under  the  direction  only  of  Reason,  to  whom  they 

made  no  doubt  of  being  able  to  recommend  themselves,  by 

a  steady  adherence  to  all  her  precepts.     Reason  counselled 

them,   at  their  first  entrance  upon  her  province,  to  enlist 

themselves  among  the  votaries  of  Religion  ;  and  informed 

them,  that  if  they  trusted  to  her  alone,  they  would  find  the 

same  fate  with  her  other  admirers,  whom  she  had  not  been 

able  to  secure  against  Appetites  and   Passions,  and  who, 

having  been  seized  by  Habits  in  the  regions  of  Desire,  had 

been  dragged  away  to  the  caverns  of  Despair.    Her  admo- 

nition was  vain,  the  greater  number  declared  against  any 

|    other  direction,  and  doubted  not  but  by  her  superintenden- 

p.  c\  they  should  climb  with  safety  up  the  Mountain  of  Ex- 

f  istence.   u  My  power,"  said  Reason,  "  is  to  advise,  not  to 

compel  j  I  have  already  told  you  the  danger  of  your  choice, 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  155 

The  path  seems  now  plain  and  even,  but  there  are  asperi- 
ties and  pitfalls,  over  which  Religion  only  c.m  conduct  you. 
Look  upwards,  and  you  perceive  a  mist  before  you  settled 
upon  die  highest  visible  part  of  the  mountain  ;  a  mist  by 
\vhich  my  prospect  is  terminated,  and  which  is  pierced  on- 
ly by  the  eyes  ot  Religion.  Beyond  it  are  the  temples  of 
Happiness,' in  which  those  who  dim!)  the  precipice  by  her 
direction,  after  the  toil  of  their  pilgrimage -.  repose  for  ever. 
I  know  not  the  way,  and  therefore  can  only  conduct  you  to 
a  better  guide.  Pride  has  sometimes  reproached  me  with 
the  narrowness  of  my  view  j  but,  when  she  <  ndeavoured  to 
extend  it,  could  only  show  me,  below  th<  mist,  the  bowers 
of  Content:  even  they  vanished  as  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon 
them  ;  and  thos<-  whom  she  persuaded  to  travel  towards 
them  were  enchained  by  Habits,  and  ingulfed  by  Despair, 
a  cruel  tyrant,  whose  caverns  are  beyond  the  darkness,  on 
the  right  side  and  on  the  left,  from  whose  prisons  none  can 
escape,  and  whom  I  cannot  teach  you  to  avoid." 

Such  was  the  declaration  of  Reason  to  those  who  de- 
manded her  protection.  Some  that  recollected  the  dictates 
of  Education,  finding  them  now  seconded  by  another  au- 
thority, submitted  \\ith  reluctance  to  the  strict  decree, 
and  engaged  themselves  among  the  followers  of  Religion, 
who  were  distinguished  by  the  uniformity  of  their  march, 
though  many  of  them  were  women,  and  by  their  continual 
endeavours  to  move  upw  mis,  without  appearing  to  regard 
the  prospects  which  at  every  step  courted  their  attention. 

AH  those  who  determined  to  follow  either  Reason  or 
Religion,  were  continually  importuned  to  forsake  the  road, 
sometimes  by  Passions,  and  sometimes  by  Appetites,  of 
whom  both  had  reason  to  boast  the  success  ot  their  arti- 
fices'; lor  so  many  were,  drawn  into  by-paths,  that  any  way 
was  more  populous  than  the  right.  The  attacks  of  the  Ap- 
petites were  more  impetuous,  those  oi  the  Passions  longer 
continued.  The  Appetites  turned  their  followers  directly 
from  the  true  way,  but  the  Passions  marched  at  first  in  a 
path  nearly  in  the  same  direction  with  that  of  Reason  and 
Religion;  hut  deviated  by  slow  degrees,  till  at  last  they 
entirely  changed  their  course.  Appetite  drew  aside  the 
dull,  and  Passion  the  sprightly.  Oi  tin  Appetites,  Lust 
was  the  strongest j  and  of  the  Passions,  Vanity.  The  most 

*13 


156"  Scqud  to  the  English  Reader. 

powerful  assault  was  to  be  feared,  when  a  Passion  and  an 
Appetite  joined  their  enticements  ;  and  the  path  of  Reason 
was  best  followed,  when  a  Passion  called  to  one  side,  and 
an  Appetite  to  the  other. 

These  seducers  had  the  greatest  success  upon  the  fol- 
lowers of  Reason,  over  whom  they  scarcely  ever  failed  to 
prevail,  except  when  they  counteracted  one  another.  They 
had  not  the  same  triumphs  over  the  votaries  of  Religion  ; 
for  though  they  were  often  led  aside  for  a  time,  Religion 
commonly  recalled  them  by  her  emissary  Conscience,  be- 
fore Habit  had  time  to  enchain  them.  But  they  that  pro- 
fessed to  obey  Reason,  if  once  they  forsook  her,  seldom  re- 
turned ;  for  she  had  no  messenger  to  summon  them  but 
Pride,  who  generally  betrayed  her  confidence,  and  employ- 
ed all  her  skill  to  support  Passion  ;  and  if  ever  she  did  her 
duty,  was  found  unable  to  prevail,  if  Habit  had  interposed. 

I  soon  found  that  the  great  danger  to  the  followers  of 
Religion,  was  only  from  Habit ;  every  other  power  was 
easily  resisted,  nor  did  they  find  any  difficulty  when  they 
inadvertently  quitted  her,  to'  find  her  again  by  the  direction 
of  Conscience,  unless  they  had  given  time  to  Habit  to  draw 
her  chain  behind  them,  and  bar  up  the  wa\  by  which  they 
had  ^andered.  Of  some  of  those,  the  condition  was  justly 
to  be  pitied,  who  turned  at  every  call  of  Conscience,  and 
tried,  but  without  effect,  to  burst  the  chains  of  Habit :  saw 
Religion  walking  forward  at  a  distance,  saw  her  with  re- 
verence, and  longed  to  join  her;  but  were,  whenever  they 
approached  her,  withheld  by  Habit,  and  languished  in  sor- 
did bondage,  which  they  could  not  escape,  though  they 
scorne  i  and  hated  it. 

It  was  evident  that  the  Habits  were  so  far  from  growing 
weaker  by  these  repeated  contests,  that  if  they  were  not  to- 
tally overcome,  every  struggle  enlarged  their  bulk,  and  in- 
creased  their  strength  ;  and  a  Habit,  opposed  and  victori- 
ous?  vvas  more  than  twice  as  strong,  as  before  the  contest. 
The  manner  in  ".vhich  those  who  vvtre  weary  of  their  tyran- 
ny endeavoured  to  escape  from  them,  appeared  by  the  event 
e  generally  wrong  ;  they  tried  to  loose  their  chains  one 
by  one,  and  to  retreat  by  the  same  degrees  as  they  advanc- 
ed :  but  before  the  deliverance  was  completed,  Habit  al- 
wavs  threw  new  chains  upon  her  fugitive.  Nor  did  any 
~scape  her  but  those  who  by  an  effort  sudden  and  violent. 


Promiscuous  Pieces.-  157 

burst  their  shackles  at  once,  and  1<  f  i  her  at  a  distance  ;  and 
even  of  these,  many,  rushing  too  precipitately  foru-nrd,  and 
hindered  by  their  terrors  -from  stopping  where  they  were 
-  sate,  were  fatigued  with  their  own  vehemence,  and  resign- 
ed themselves  again  to  that  power  from  whom  an  <  scape 
must  be  so  dearly  bought,  and  whose  tyranny  was  little  felt, 
except  when  it  was  resisted. 

Some  however  there  always  were,  who,  when  they  found 
Habit  prevailing  over  them,  called  upon  Reason  or  Reli- 
gion tor  assistance  :  each  of  them  willingly  came  to  the 
succour  of  her  suppliant ;  but  neither  with  the  same  strength, 
nor  the  same  success.  Habit,  insolent  with  her  power, 
would  often  presume  to  parley  with  Reason,  and  oftVr  to 
loose  some  of  her  chains  if  the  rest  might  remain.  To  this, 
Reason,  who  was  never  certain  of  victory,  frequently  con- 
sented, but  always  found  her  concession  destructive,  and 
saw  the  captive  led  away  by  Habit  to  his  forrntr  slavery. 
Religion  never  submitted  to  treaty,  but  held  out  her  hand 
with  certainty  of  conquest ;  and  if  the  captive  to  whom  she 
gave  it,  did  not  quit  his  hold,  always  led  him  away  in  tri- 
umph, and  placed  him  in  the  direct  path  to  the  temple  of 
Happiness;  where  Reason  never  failed  to  congratulate  his 
deliverance,  and  encourage  his  adherence  to  that  power,  to 
whose  timely  succour  he  was  indebted  for  it. 

SECTION  xv. —  The  vision  of  Theodore  continued. 
WHEN  the  traveller  was  agaia  placed  in  the  road  oi  Hap- 
piness, 1  saw  Habit  again  gliding  before  him,  but  reduced 
to  the  stature  of  a  dwarf,  without  strength  and  without  ac- 
tivity ;  but  when  the  Passions  or  Appetites,  which  had  be- 
fore seduced  him,  made  their  approach,  Habit  would  on  a 
sudden  start  into"  size,  and  with  unexpected  violence,  push 
him  towards  them.  The  wretch,  thus  impelled  on  one  side, 
and  allured  on  the  other,  too  frequently  quitted  the  road  of 
Happiness,  to  which,  after  his  second  deviation  from  it,  he 
rarely  returned.  But,  by  a  timely  call  upon  Religion,  the 
force  of  Habit  was  eluded,  her  attacks  grew  fainter,  and  at 
last  her  correspondence  with  the  enemy  was  entirely  de- 
stroyed. She  then  began  to  employ  those  restless  faculties, 
in  compliance  with  the  power  which  she  could  not  over- 
cc  m  ;  and  as  bhe  gre-w  a>;ain  in  stature  and  in  strength, 
cleared  away  the  asperities  of  the  road  to  Happiness. 


i^tf  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

From  this  road  I  could  IVH  easily  withdraw  my  atten- 
tion., he-c  uise  all  who  travi.lU.-d  it  appeared  chc  rhil  ard  sa- 
tisfied ;  and  die  farther  the\  ;  ,  givaur  appear- 
ed their  alacrity,  and  th  conviction  of  the 
wisdom  ot  ihvir  guide.  Some  who  had  never  deviated  but 
bv  short  excursions,  had  Habit  in  the  middle  of  thtir  pas- 
sage vigorously  supporting  them,  and  <in\  ii.g  oil  th.  Ap- 
pe  it,  s  an.i  inpted  to  inteirupt  their 
progress.  Others,  who  had  entered  this  road  late,  or  had 
Ion:.;  forsaken  it,  were  toiling  on  without  her  help  at  least, 
and  commonly  against  her  endeavours.  But  1  observed, 
when  they  approached  to  the  barren  top,  that  lew  were  able 
to  proceed  without  some  support  from  Habit ;  and  that  they 
whose  il.ibits  wei\  strong,  advanced  towards  the  mists 
with  liuK-  emotion,  and  entered  them  at  List  \\Sth  calmness 
and  conl  alter  which,  they  were  seen  only  by  the 
eve  of  Religion;  and  though  Reason  looked  after  them 
with  the  most  canu  »t  curiosity,  she  could  onlv  obtain  a 
iamt  glimpse,  when  her  mistress,  to  enlarge  her  prospect, 
raised  lvjr  from  the  ground.  Hi  i;son,  h«-»wi  ver,  discerned 
that  thev  were  safe,  but  Religion  saw  thai  they  were  happy. 
1  Now,  Theodore.,  said  my  protector,  withdraw  th\  vii  w 

*  front  the   regions  ol    oh  and  sec    the   fate  ui    thcjse 
•who,  when  diey  were  dis-nissed  !.»y  Education,  would  ad- 
cmit  no  direction  but  that  of  Reason.     Survey  their  wan- 

*  derings,  and  be  wisi  / 

I  looked  then  upon  the  road  of  Reason,  which  was  in- 
clet  1,  so  far  as  it  reached,  tru  same  wilh  that  o.-  Religion, 
nor  had  Reason  discovered  it  but  by  her  instrm  lion.  Yet 
when  she  had  once  been  taught  it,  she  cl'-ariy  saw  that  it 
w;o  right  ;  :\nd  Piide  had  sometimes  incited  her  to  declare 
that  she  discovered  it  herself,  and  persuaded  her  to  offer 
her.  If  -s  a  guide  to  Religion,  whom  after  man)  vain  ex- 
periments sh  found  it  her  highest  privilege  to  follow.  Rea- 
son was  however  at  last  well  instructed  in  part  of  the  way, 
and  appeared  to  teach  it  with  some  success,  whin  her  pre- 
cept^ were  not  misrepresented  bv  Passion,  or  her  influence 
overborne  by  Appetite.  But  neither  of  these  enemies  was 
sh-  aSle  to  prs^t.  When  Passion  sejztd  upon  hei  votari-  s, 
she  si  Unm  attempted  opt_-<  suion.  bh-  s- <-med  ind-ved  to 
contend  wit'-)  more  vigou-  igainsr  Appetite.  f>ui  was  i\>  ne- 
rally  overwearied  in  the  contest ;  and  it  either  oi  her  oppo- 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  159 

nents  had  confederated  with  Habit,  her  authority  was  whol- 
ly at  an  end.  When  Habit  endeavoured  to  captivate  the 
votaries  of  Religion,  she  grew 'by  slow  degrees,  and  gave 
time  to  escape;  but  in  seizing  the  unhappy  followers  of 
Reason,  she  proceeded  as  one  that  had  nothing  to  fear,  and 
enlarged  her  size,  and  doubled  her  chains  without  inter- 
mission, and  without  reserve. 

Of  those  who  forsook  the  directions  of  Reason,  some 
were  led  aside  by  the  whimpers  of  Ambition,  who  was  per- 
petually pointing  to  stately  palaces,  situated  on  eminences 
on  eith.-r  side,  recounting  the-  d  lights  of  affluence,  and 
boasting  the  security  of  power.  The)  were  easilv  persu.td- 
ed  to  follow  her,  and  Habit  quickly  threw  her  chains  upon 
them,  they  were  soon  convinced  of  the  ferity  of  their  choice, 
of  then!  atiernnt< I  to  ri  r.urn.  Ambition  led  them 
ard  from  precipice  to  precipice,  where  many  fell  and 
•  seen  no  more.  Those  that  escaped  were,  after  a  long 
scries  of  hazards,  generally  delivered  over  to  Avarict ,  and 
enlisted  by  her  in  the  service  of  Tyranny,  where  they  con- 
tinued to  heap  up  gold,  tilt  their  patrons  or  their  heirs 
pushed  them  headlong  at  last  into  the  caverns  of  Despair. 
Others  were  enticed  by  Intemperance  to  ra  ruble  in 
search  of  those  fruits  that  hung  over  the  rocks,  and  filled 
the  air  with  their  fragrance.  I  observed,  that  the  Habits 
which  hovered  about  these  soon  grew  to  an  enormous  size, 
nor  were  there  any  who  less  attempted  to  return  to  Rea- 
son, or  sooner  sunk  into  the  gulfs  that  laudrefore  them. 
When  these  first  quitted  the  road,  Reasof^ooked  after 
them  with  a  frown  of  contempt,  but  had  little  expectation 
of  being  able  to  reclaim  them  ;  for  the  bowl  of  intoxication 
was  of  such  qualities  as  to  make  them  lose  all  regard  but 
for  the  present  moment.  Neither  Hope  nor  Fear  could  en- 
ter their  retreats  ;  and  Habit  had  so  absolute  a  power,  that 
even  Conscience,  if  Religion  had  employed  her  in  their  fa- 
vour, would  not  have  been  able  to  force  an  entrance. 

There  were  others  whose  crime  it  was  rather  to  neglect 
Reason  than  to  disobey  her ;  and  who  retreated  iron,  the 
heat  and  tumult  of  the  way,  not  to  the  bovvers  of  Intem- 
perance, but  to  the  maze  of  Indolence.  They  had  this  pe- 
culiarity in  their  condition,  that  they  were  always  in  sight 
of  the  road  of  Reason,  always  wishing  for  her  presence. 


160  '      'id  to  the  English  Peader. 

and  always  resolvir->-  to  ntutti  to-m«;rrow.      In  these,  was 
rmmentlv    eon.s|»euoub    the    -uUlety   of    li.ibn,  •   ho 

•i|>on    irum,    ami    \\  as    . 
mom,  i    I 'mm  thr  road,  \xhieh     h 

key  h;u!  the  pou  t-r  oi  leuehmg.    1  hey 
wand' n  d  on.  i'rom  one  double  o!  iiu:  i.ti)\  i-.mh  to  an< 
with  •'  civih    aj)on  tl 

as   t!u  y  ;iu  ^j-'  \\   |>uLi,    ar.d   tiu    r>c   IKS 

fainter:    thc\     ])KK  .1    divir    drc;.rv    n.anii    u 

pleasure    in  uv.  n    ;,  yi  \vidi«»iit    power    JO    rtturn  ; 

and   h  ul   this  all  uihcis,  that  th<  \ 

criminal    !)ut    •  I'/IL    druuki.rd    1.  r    a    tune 

••r   his  v*ine;    tht  u^    man  mum.  ried    in 

the  m  ,  •  jpfif  h  i  j»  rival;  but  the  of    liul 

had  n  nor  me:  Unt  i-nver- 

ed  ir.  i.ules; 

,\ ,  till  tiny  .n  ri\  ed 
.  varied   on!y  ^'ith    poj;j)U'»  and 
iei--  th--   dominion  of   Inc' 

•  i  irlnvr  is  (i<  lanch'-l.  : 

.  . 

•    torturrd    [\  .  >r  a   tiju.  , 

to  thi    cruelty  of  D   spair. 

\Vhm-  I  was  musing  on  this  miserable  lec- 

tor citlh-d  out  to  me,  fct  Remember,  Th-.-oclorc,  and  be 
and  I  .  iil  against  thee."     I  si  .d  be- 

held   myHcU^surrouiidcd    by  the    rocks   of  'i  ;    the 

birds  of  lig^^  .ing  in  the  trees,  and  i  c<  s  of 

the  mormog  darted  uj 

un.  JOHNS- 


PAUT  11.— PIECES  f.¥  POETRY. 

CHAPTKR  I.— NARRATIVE  PIECES. 
SECTION  i. — The  C  >melcon  ;  or  pertinacity  exposed. 

OFT  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark, 
With  eyes  that  hardly  serv'd  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  f^fet ; 
Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has  been, 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen  : 
Returning  from  his  finish'd  tour, 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before  ; 
Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop, 
The  travell'd  fool  your  mouth  will  stop  : 
"  But,  if  my  judgment  you'll  allow — 
I've  seen — and  sun-  I  ought  to  know"-—-; 
So  begs  you'd  pay  a  due  submission, 
And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travellers  of  such  a  cast, 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  pass'd, 
And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat, 
HT  >w  talk'd  of  this,  and  then  of  that, 
Uiscours'd  a  while,  'wongst  other  matter, 
Of  the  chameleon's  form  and  nature. 
"  A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
"  Sure  never  liv'd  beneath  the  sun  ! 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  and  long, 
A  fish's  head,  a  serpent^s  tongue, 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoin'd  ; 
And  what  a  length  ot  tail  behind ! 
How  slow  its  pace  !  and  then  its  hue — 
Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  F1' 

u  Hold  there, '*  the  other  quick  replies, 

'Tis  gnen — I  saw  it  with  these  eyes, 
As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay, 
And  warm'd  it  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 
S  retch' d  at  its  ease  the  beast  I  view'd, 
Aiul  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 

lk  I've  seen  it,  friend,  as  we  11  as  you, 
Aivi  must  again  affirm  it  blue. 
A    leisure  1  the  beast  survey 'd, 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade." 


162  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

"  'Tis  gnvn,  'tis  green,  I  can  assure  ye,' 
"  Green  ?'"'  cricb  tin:  other  in  a  fur)  — 
u  Why,  do  you  think  I've  lost  my  eves  ?" 
tc  '  I  Were  no  gn  at  loss,"  the  friend  replies, 
*'  For,  if  they  alw.iys  cerve  you  thus, 
"  You'll  find  them  but  of  little  us<:." 

So  high  at  lust  the  contest  rose, 
From  words  tKij^  almost  came  to  blows  : 
Wiu  n  luckily  came  by  a  third — 
To  him  the  question  they  referred  ; 
And  begg'd  he*d  tell  '<-m,  if  he  knew, 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 

u  Come/'  cries  the  umpire,  u  cease  your  pother. 
The  creature's  neither  one  nor  t'other  : 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night, 
And  view'd  it  o'er  by  candK  light : 
I  m  <rk'd  it  well — 'twas  black  as  jet — 
You  stare— but  I  have  got  it  yet, 
And  can  produce  it."     u  Pray  then  do  : 
For  I  am  sure  the  thing  is  blue." 
"   And  I'll  engage  that  when  you've  seen 
The  reptile,  you'll  pronounce  him  green." 

u  Well  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt," 
Replies  the  man,  u  I'll  turn  him  out: 
And  when  before  your  eyes  I've  set  hirn, 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I'll  eat  him,5' 

He  said  ;  then  tull  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  and  lo — 'twas  white  ! 
Both  star'd  ;  the  man  look'd  wond'rous  wise — 
44  My  children,"  the  chameleon  cries, 
(Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue,) 
u  You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong  : 
When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view, 
Think  others  sre  as  well  as  you  : 
Nor  wonder,  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eye-sight  to  his  own."  MERRICK. 

SECTION  n. —  The  hare  and  many  friends. 

FRIENDSHIP,  in  truth,  is  but  a  name, 
Unless  to  few  we  stint  the  flame. 
The  child,  who  many  fathers  share, 
Math  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 


Narrative  Pieces,  li;j 

3Tis  thus  in  friendship ;  who  depend 
On  m;my,  rarely  find  a  friend. 
A  hare,  who  in  a  civ#  way, 
Complied  with  every  tiling,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train, 
Who  haunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the  plain, 
Her  care  was,  never  to  offend  ; 
And  ev'ry  creature  was  her  friend. 

As  forth  she  went,  at  early  dawn, 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  cries, 
And  from  the  deep-mouth'd  thunder  flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath  j 
She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death ; 
She  doubles  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  round ; 
Till,  fainting  in  the  public  way, 
Half-dead  with  fear  she  gasping  lay. 

What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  horse  appeared  in  view ! 
"  Let  me,"  says  she,  "  your  back  ascend. 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 
To  friendship  ev'ry  burden's  light." 

The  horse  replied,  u  Poor  honest  puss ! 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus : 
Be  comforted,  relief  is  near  ; 
For  all  vour  friends  are  in  the  rear." 

She  next  the  stately  bull  implor'd ; 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord ; 
"  Since  ev'ry  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offence,  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. — 
To  leave  you  thus  might  seem  unkind  ,• 
But  see,  the  goat  is  just  behind." 

The  goat  remark'd  her  pulse  was  high, 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye  ; 
"  My  back,"  says  he,  a  may  do  you  harm ; 
The  sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm." 

The  sheep  was  feeble,  and  complain'd 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained  : 
14 


164  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

Said  he  was  slow,  con;'v>s*«i  i\\$  {cars; 
For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  \\ili  as  hares. 
She  now  the  trotung  tali  adviress'd, 
To  bavc  from  ueath  a  iriciul  distress'd. 
"  Shall  I,"  sa\s  he,  il  of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  care  engage? 
Older  and  abler  puss'd  }  ou  by  : 
How  strong  arc  those !  how  \veak  am  I ! 
Snouid  i  presume  to  bear  you  iieiue, 
Those  ii lends  of  mine  might  take  offence. 
Kxcuse  me,  then.     You  know  n»)  heart, 
But  dearest  inmus,  aias  !   mu-t  part. 
How  shall  we  ail  lament! —  Adieu  ! 
For,  see,  the  hounds  arc  just  in  view.''  GAV. 

CTION  in. —  The  tiir re  warnings. 

THE  tree  oi  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  : 
'Twas  therciore  said  b)   ancient  sages, 

That  love  of  hie  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages, 
\\  .MOWS  sharp,  and  sickness  rages, 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
This  great  aiictcion  to  believe, 
\VrKi;    nl  loiiR.-^,  but  lew  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can\  prevail, 
Be  pleas'd  to  hear  a  modem  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 
On  neighbour  Dodson's  wedding-day, 
Death  call'd  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room  ; 
And  looking  grave — u  You  must,"  says  he, 
u  Quit  your  swe^t  bride,  and  come  with  me." 
"  With  you  !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side  ! 
With  you  1"  the  hapless  husband  cried  ; 
44  Young  as  I  am,  'tis  monstrous  hard  1 
Beside,  in  truth,  I'm  not  prepar'd  : 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go  ; 
This  is  my  wedding- day  you  know." 

What  more  he  urg'd,  I  have  not  heard, 
His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger ; 


Narrative  Pieces.  165 

So  death  the  poor  delinquent  spar'd, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yd  calling  up  a  serious  look, 
His  hour-glass  trembled  white  he  spoke — 
"  Neighbour/'  he  said,  u  Farcvv  'I.      No  more 
Shrill  De,v>h  disturb  your  mirthful  hour  : 
And  htrther,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  crueltv  upon  my  name, 
To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 
And  fit  vo  \  t.-.T  your  future  station, 
Three  several  Warnings  vou  shall  have, 
B.-;  >r.    you're  summon'd  to  ihe  rcrave. 
Willing  for  once  I'll  quic  my  prey, 

And  grant  a  kin-.;  repi  -vt  j 
In  hopes  you'll  have  iv,  more  ro  say  ; 
But,  when  F  call  again  this  way, 

Well  pie;'V-i  the  world  will  leave." 

To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 
How  long  he  liv'd,  how  wise,  how  well, 
How  roundly  hi:  pursued  his  course, 
And  smok'd  his  pipe,  and  strokM  his  horse, 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell: 
He.  chaffer'd  then,  he  bought,  he  sold, 
Nor  once  perceiv'd  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  death  as  near  ; 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 

He  pass'd  his  hours  in  peace. 
Bnt  while  he  view'd  his  wealth  increase, 
While  thus  along  Life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares, 
Uncali'd,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood 

As  all  alone  he  sate, 
Th'  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 
•  Onee  more  before  him  stood. 

Hall-kill'd  with  anger  and  surprise, 
^  So  soon  returned  !"  old  Dodson 


J66  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

"  So  soon,  d'\x  call  ii  r"   Death  replies  : 
u  Surely,  m\  fr:--nd,  you're  but  in  jest ! 

Since  I  \VI*F  here  b<-{ 
rJTis  six  and  thirty  years  at  lea 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  rejoin'd  ; 
"  To  spare  the  ae<  u  \..'ulc!  be  kind  : 
However,  see  \  our  search  be  u-gul  ; 
And  your  authority — is't  regal  ? 
Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand, 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant, 
Besides,  you  promised  me  Three  Warnings, 
Which  I  have  look'd  fur  nights  and  mornings  ! 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  e.ise, 
I  can  recover  damages." 

"  I  know,"  cries  Death,  u  that,  at  the  best, 
I    seldom  am  a  wch  orm  guest  ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 
I  little  thought  you'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable  ; 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length  ; 
I  wish  you  joy,  tho',  of  your  strength  1"" 

^  Hold,'*  says  the  farmer,  "  not  oo  fast  ! 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 

u  And  no  great  wonder/'  Death  replies  r 
u  However  you  still  keep  your  eyes  ; 
And  sure  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends, 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 

u  Perhaps,"  says  Dodson,  u  so  it  might. 
But  latterly  I've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  'tis  true  ; 
But  still  there's  comfort  left  for  you  : 
Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse  ; 
I  warrant  you  he?r  all  the  news." 

u  There's  none,"  cries  he  ;  "  and  if  there  were 
I'm  grown  so  deaf,  I  could  not^iear." 

"  Nay,  then,"  the  spectre  stern  rejoin'd 
"  These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings  ; 

"  If  you  are  Lame,  and  Deaf,  and  Blind, 
You've  had  your  Three  sufficient  Warnings. 
So,  come  along,  no  more  we'll  part ; 
He  said,  and  touch'd  him  with  his  dart. 


Narrative  Pieces.  16 

And  now  old  Dodson  turning  pale, 

Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale.  THRALE. 

SECTION  iv. —  The  Hermit. 
FAR  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 
From  youth  to  age  a  rev'rend  hermit  grew  ; 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well; 
Remote  from  man,  with  God  he  pass'd  his  days; 
Pray'r  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 
SeemM  heav'u  itself  till  one  suggestion  rose- 
That  vice  should  triumph,  virtue  vice  obey  ; 
This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence's  sway: 
His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect  boast, 
And  all  the  tenour  of  his  soul  is  lost. 

So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 
Calm  nature's  image  on  its  wat'ry  breast. 
Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow, 
And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colours  glow : 
But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  sea  divide, 
Swilt  ruffling  circles  curl  on  ev'ry  side, 
And  glimm'ring  fragments  of  a  broken  sun  ; 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight, 
To  find  if  books  or  swains  report  it  right, 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew, 
Whose  feet  camt^  wand'rin %  o'er  the  nigntly  dew,) 
H^   quits  his  cell;  the  pilgrim-staff  he  bore, 
And  fix'ci  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before; 
Th~n  witlvthe  sun  a  rising  journey  went, 
Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  was  wasted  in  the  pathless  grass^ 
And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to  pass : 
But  when  the  southern  sun  had  warm'd  the  day, 
A  youtu  came  posting  o'er  a  crossing  way: 
His  raiment  descent,  his  complexion  fair, 
And  soil  in  graceful  ringlets  wav'd  his  hair : 
Then  near>pproachingt  u  Father,  hail  1"  he  cried, 
And,  "  Hail,  my  son!"  the  rev'rend  sire  replied. 
Words  followed  words,  from  question  answer  flovr'd, 
And  talk  of  various  kind  ciecciv'd  the  road  j 


Sequel  to  the  English  Reader* 

Till  each  with  other  pleas'd,  and  loath  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart. 
Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 
Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  sun  ;  the  closing  hour  of  day- 
Came  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  gray ; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose  : 
When  n^ar  the  road  a  stately  palace  rose. 
There,  by  the  moon,  through  ranks  of  trees  they  pass, 
Whose  verdure  crown'd  the  sloping  sides  of  grass. 
It  chanc'd  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 
Still  made  his  house  the  wand  ring  stranger's  home ; 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of  praise, 
°rov'd  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive  :  the  livYied  servants  wait  ; 
Th<  ir  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food, 
An  1  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 
Then,  led  to  rest,  the  day's  long  toil  they  drown, 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 

At  length  'tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play; 
Fresh  o'er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep, 
And  shake  the  neighboring  wood  to  banish  sleep. 
Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  t^>  the  call : 
An  e  irly  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall ; 
Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  grac'd, 
Which  the  kind  master  forc'd  the  guests  to  taste. 
Then,  pleas'd  and  thankful,  from  the  porch  they  go ; 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  wo : 
His  cup  was  vanish'd  ;  for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloinM  the  glitt'ring  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way, 
Glist'ning  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 
Disordered  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near, 
Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear  : 
So  seem'd  the  sire,  when  far  upon  the  road 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show'd. 
He  vtopp'd  with  silence,  walk'd  with  trembling  heart, 
And    Much  he  wrsh'd,  but  durst  not  ask  to  part: 
3VT.«rmVing  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard 
That  gen'rous  actions  meet  a  base  rewarcL 


Narrative  Pieces. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  sun  his  glory  shrouds. 
The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable  clouds; 
A  sound  in  air  presag'd  approaching  rain, 
And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warn'd  by  the  signs,  the  wand1  ring  pair  retreat, 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighboring  seat. 
"Twas  built  with  turrets  on  a  rising  ground, 
And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimprov'd  around  ; 
Its  owner's  temper,  tim'rous  and  severe, 
Unkind  and  griping,  caus'd  a  desert  there. 
As  near  the  miser's  heavy  doors  they  drew, 
Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fwy  blew  ; 
The  nimble  lightning  mixM  with  show'rs  began, 
And  o'er  their  heads  loud  rolling  thunder  ran. 
Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in  vain, 
Driv'n  by  the  wind  and  batter'd  by  the  rain. 
At  length  some  pity  warm'd  the  master's  breast  °y 
('Twas  then  his  threshold  first  receiv'd  a  guest  ;) 
Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care, 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  ^the  shivVing  pair. 
One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls, 
And  nature's  fervour  through  their  limbs  recalls* 
'  Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  meagre  wine, 
(Each  hardly  granted,)  serv'd  them  both  t>  dine : 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appeared  to  cease, 
A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 

With  still  remark  the  pond'ring  hermit  viewed, 
In  one  so  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude; 
And  why  should  such  (within  himself  he  cried) 
Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  beside  ? 
But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  take  place, 
In  ev'ry  settling  feature  of  his  face, 
When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
That  cup 'the  gen'rous  landlord  own'd  before. 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  ot  this  churlish  soul! 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly  ; 
The  sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky  4 
A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 
And,  glitt'ring  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day: 
The  weather  courts  them  from  their  poor  retreat. 
And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 


170  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

While  hence  the\  walk,  the  pilgrim's  bosom  wrought 
With  all  the  travail  of  uncertain  thought  ; 
His  partner's  acts  without  their  cause  appear  ; 
'Twas  there  a  vice  ;  and  srem'd  a  madness  here  : 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  got  s, 
Lost  and  confounded  vvith  the  various  shows. 

Now  night's  dim  shades  again  involve  the  sky;    ~) 
Again  the  wand'rers  want  a  place  to  lie  : 
Ag  un  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging  nigh.  J 

Tlu-  soil  improved  around,  the  mansion  neat, 
An  1  '.icitlur  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great, 
It  seem'd  to  speak  i:s  master's  turn  of  mind, 
Contmi,  and  not  for  praise  but  virtue  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  vvith  weary  feet, 
Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet. 
Their  greeting  fair,  bestowM  with  modtst  guise, 
The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies  : 

u  Without  a  vain,  without  a  grudging  heart, 
To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part; 
From  M'nr.  you  cnme,  for  him  accept  it  here, 
A  fra«'k   ind  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer." 
H'   spoke  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Th<  n  taik'd  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed : 
'\\  hen  th<   grave  household  round  hi    hall  repair, 
\\  .:  .:'cl  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  pray'r* 

At  length  the  world,  renew 'd  by  calm  repose, 
W;,6  strong  for  toil ;  the  dappled  morn  arose  : 
B  i-  re  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Rear  the  cios'd  cradle,  where  an  infant  '  lept, 
And  wri.h'd  his  neck  :  the  landlord's  little  pride, 
O  strange  return!  grew  black,  and  gas  .M,  and  died, 
Horror  of  horrors !  what!  his  oniv  son! 
How  look'd  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was  done! 
Not  hrll,  tho'  belles  black  JHWS  in  sunder  part, 
And  breathe  the  blue  fire,  could  more,  assault  his  heart, 

Confus'd  and  struck  with  silence  at  the  deed, 
H<   flies;  but  trembling,  fails  to  fly  with  speed. 
His  steps  the  youth  pursues;  the  country  ! 
Ptrplex'd  with  roads  ;  a  servant  showed  t.iie  way  : 
A  river  cross'd  tht»  path ,  the  passage  <,Vr 
W.^  nice  to  find;  the  .servant  trod  beh>re  : 
Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  supplied, 


Narrative  Pieces.  \7l 

And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending  branches  glide, 
The  youth,  who  seem'd  to  watch  a  time  to  sin, 
Approach'd  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust  him  in: 
Plunging  he  falls,  then  rising  lifts  his  head; 
Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 

Wild  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father's  eyes  ; 
He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cri<  s  ; 
*•  Detested  wretch  !" — But  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seem'd  no  longer  man. 
His  vouthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet ; 
His  robe  t  -rn'd  white,  and  flow'd  upon  his  feet; 
Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair; 
Celestial  odours  breathe  through  purpled  air; 
And  wings  whose  colours  glittered  on  the  day, 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display, 
The  form  <-  thereal  bursts  upon  his  sight, 
And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Tho'  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim's  passion  grew, 
Sudden  he  gaz'd,  and  wist  not  what  to  do ; 
Surprise,  in  secret  chains,  his  words  suspends,. 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke  ; 
The  vorce  of  music  ravished  as  he  spoke. 

"  Thy  pray'r,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice  unknown, 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne  ; 
These  charms  success  in  our  bright  region  find, 
And  force  an  angel  down  to  calm  thy  mind ; 
For  this  commissioned,  I  forsook  the  sky — 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  I. 
Then  know  the  truth  of  government  Divine, 
And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 
The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made: 
In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid. 
Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends. 
'Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye, 
The  Pow'r  exerts  his  attributes  on  high ; 
Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will ; 
And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 
What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more  surprise. 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wond'ring  eyes  ?. 


2  72  Scqud  to  the  English  Reader. 

Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  th'  Almighty  just ; 
And  where  yon  can't  unriddlt ,  learn  to  trust. 

4C  The-  great  vain  man,  who  far  d  on  costly  food, 
Whose  lift-  w;»s  too  luxurious  to  be  good  ; 
Who  made  i  is  v\ith  goblets  shine, 

And  foic'd  his  guests  to  morning  -vine  ; 

lias,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  I 
And  still  h  lies,  hu.  with  i  -,st 

44  'i  n  suspici<  Led  door 

Ne'er  mov\!  in  pi'.y  to  the  vmyJYmo  poor, 
With  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heav'n  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be  kind, 
C<-.  of  wanting  worth,  he  \lews  I!K  bowl, 

And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul, 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sui.  d, 

With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head  ; 
In  the  kind  warmth  the  imtil  learns  to  glow, 
And,  loose  from  dross  the  silver  runs  below. 

u  Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod  ; 
But  now  the  child  half  weaird  his  heart  from  God  : 
Child  of  his  ;tge,  for  him  hv  livM  in  pain, 

;d  measured  back  his  steps  to  earth  again. 

s?es  had  his  dotage  run  ! 
P»Mt  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  tne  son. 
To  all  hut  thee  in  fits  he  seem'd  to  go ; 
And  'twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow. 
The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 
Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just. 
But  how  had  all  his  fortunes  felt  a  wrack, 
Hid  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back  ! 
This  night  his  treasur'd  heaps  he  meant  to  stea}, 
An--  what  a  fund  of  charity  would  fail! 
Thus  Heav'n  instructs  thy  m-ind  :  this  trial  o'er, 
Dep,\rt  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more." 

On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  withdrew  : 
The  sage  stood  wond'ring  as  the  seraph  flew. 
Thus  looked  Elisha,  when,  to  mount  on  high, 
His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky; 
The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  the  virw  ; 
The  prophet  gaz'd,  and  wished  to  follow  too. 
The  bending  Hermit  here  a  pray'r  begun  : 
Lord  !  as  in  heav'ti  on  earth  thy  will  be  done* 


Narrative  Pieces.  17$ 

Then,  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient  place  ; 

And  pass'd'a  life  oi  piety  and^eace.  PARNELL. 

CHAPTER  II.— DIDACTIC  PIECES. 

SECTION  i. — The  love  of  the  world  detected. 

THUS  says  the  prophet  of  the  Turk  : 
Good  Mussulman,  abstain  from  pork  : 
There  is  a  part  in  ev'ry  swine 
No  friend  or  follower  of  mine 
May  taste,  whatever  his  inclination, 
On  pain  of  excommunication. 
Such  Mahomet's  mysterious  charge, 
And  thus  he  left  the  point  at  large. 
Had  he  the  sinful  part  express' d 
They  might  with  safety  eat  the  rest : 
But  for  one  piece  they  thought  it  hard 
From  the  whole  hog  to  be  debarr'd  ; 
And  set  their  wit  to  work  to  find 
"  What  joint  the  prophet  had  in  mind. 
Much  controversy  straight  arose: 
These  choose  the  back,  the  belly  those  j 
By  some  'tis  confidently  said 
He  meant  not  to  forbid  the  head ; 
While  others  at  that  doctrine  rail, 
An-!  piously  prefer  the  tail. 
Thus,  conscience  freed  from  ev'ry  clog, 
Mahometans  eat  up  the  hog. 

You  laugh — 'tis  well— the  tale  applied 
May  make  you  laugh  on  t'other  side. 
"  Renounce  the  world,"  the  preacher  cries : 
44  We  do,'*  a  multitude  replies. 
While  one  as  innocent  regards 
A  saug  and  friendly  game  at  cards  : 
And  one  whatever  you  may  say, 
Can  set  no  evil  in  a  play  ; 
Some  love  a  concert,  or  race, 
And  others,  shooting  and  the  chase. 
RevilM  and  lov'd,  renounc'd  and  followed, 
Thus  bit  by  bit  the  world  is  swallowed  ; 
Each  ihinks  his  neighbour  makes  too  free. 
Yet  likes  a  slice  as  well  as  he  ; 


174  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

§ 

With  sophistry  their  sauce  they  sweeten. 
Till  quite  from  tail  to  snout  'tis  eaten.  COWPEB. 

1 
SECTION  ii. — On  Friendship* 

WHAT  virtue,  or  what  mental  grace, 
Biu  men,  unqualified  and  base, 

Will  boast  it  their  profession? 
Profusion  apes  the  noblest  part 
Oi  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dullness,  of  discretion. 
If  ev'ry  polish  d  gem  we  find 
Illuminating  heart  or  mind, 

Provoke  to  imitation  ; 
No  wonder  Friendship  does  the  same. 
That  jewel  of  the  purest  flame, 

Or  rather  constellation. 
No  knave  but  boldly  will  pretend 
The  requisites  that  form  a  friend, 

A  real  and  a  sound  one, 
Nor  any  fool  he  would  deceive, 
But  prove  as  ready  to  believe, 

And  dream  that  he  has  found  one. 
Candid,  and  generous,  and  just, 
Boys  care  but  little  whom  they  trust. 

An  error  soon  corrected — 
For  who  but  learns  in  riper  years, 
That  man  when  smoothest  he  appears 

Is  most  to  be  suspected  ; 
But  here  again  a  danger  lies, 
Lest  having  misemployed  our  eyes 

And  taken  trash  for  treasure, 
We  should  unwarily  conclude 
Friendship  a  false  ideal  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 
An  acquisition  rather  rare, 
Is  yet  no  subject  of  despair  ; 

Nor  is  it  wise  complaining, 
If  either  on  forbidden  ground, 
Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found, 

We  sought  without  attaining. 
No  irienuship  will  abide  the  test 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest, 

Or  mean  self-love  erected  : 


Didactic  Pieces 

Nor  such  as  may  awile  subsist 
Between  the  sot, and  sensualist, 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 
Who  seeks  a  friend,  should  come  disposed 
T'  exhibit,  in  full  bloom  disclos'd, 

The  graces  and  the  beauties, 
That  form  the  character  he  seeks 
For  'tis  an  union  that  bespeaks 

Reciprocated  duties. 
Mutual  attention  is  implied, 
And  equal  truth  on  either  side, 

And  constantly  supported ; 
>Tis  senseless  arrogance  t'  accuse 
Another  of  sinister  views, 

Our  own  as  much  distorted. 
But  will  sincerity  suffice  ? 
It  is  indeed  above  all  price, 

And  must  be  made  the  basis ; 
But  ev'ry  virtue  of  the  soul 
Must  constitute  the  charming  whole, 

All  shining  in  their  places. 
A  fretful  temper  will  divide 
The  closest  knot  that  may  be  tied, 

By  careless  sharp  corrosion: 
A  temper  passionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 

At  one  immense  explosion. 
In  vain  the  talkative  unite 
In  hopes  of  permanent  delight—- 
The secret  just  committed, 
Forgetting  its  important  weight. 
They  drop  through  mere  desire  to  prate, 

And  by  themselves  outwitted. 
How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect  seems, 
All  thoughts  of  friendship  are  but  dreams 

If  envy  "chance  to  creep  in  : 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed, 
May  prove  a  dang'rous  foe  indeed, 

But  not  a  friend  worth  keeping. 
As  Envy  pines  at  Good  possessed, 
So  Jealousy  looks  forth  distress'd 

On  good  that  seems  approaching : 
15 


176  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

And  if  success  his  steps  attend, 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend, 

And  hates  him  for  encroaching. 
Hence  authors  of  illustrious  name, 
Unless  belied  by  common  fame, 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel ; 
»      To  deem  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
A  tax  upon  their  own  just  praise. 

And  pluck  each  others  laurel. 
A  man  renowned  for  repartee, 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 

With  friendship's  finest  feeling; 
Will  thrust  a  dagger  at  youi  breast. 
And  say  he  wounded  you  in  jest, 

By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 
Whoever  keeps  an  open  car 
For  tattlers,  will  be  sure  to  hear 

The  trumpet  of  contention  ; 
Aspersion  is  the  babbler's  trade, 
To  listen  is  to  lend  him  aid, 

And  rush  into  clissention. 
A  friendship  that  in  frequent  fits 
Of  controversial  rage  emits 

The  sparks  of  disputation, 
Like  hand  in  hand  insurance  plates, 
"   Most  unavoidably  creates 

The  thought  of  conflagration. 
Some  fickle  creatures  boast  a  soul 
True  as  the  needle  to  the  pole, 

Their  humour  yet  so  various — 
They  manifest,  their  whole  life  through, 
The  needle's  deviation  too, 

Their  love  is  so  precarious. 
The  great  and  small  but  rarely  meet 
On  terms  cf  amity  complete  ; 

Plebeians  must  surrender, 
And  yield  so  much  to  noble  folk, 
It  is  combining  fire  with  smoke, 

Obscurity  with  splendour. 
Some  pre  so  placid  and  serene 
(As  Irish  bogs  are  always  green) 

They  Meeo  secure  from  wakmer  • 


Didactic  Pieces.  1*7 

And  are  indeed  a  bog  that  bears 
Your  unparticipated  cares, 

Unmov'd  and  without  quaking. 
Courtier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  het'rogeneous  politics, 

Without  an  effervescence, 
Like  that  of  salts  \vith  k-mon  juice, 
Which  does  not  vet  like  that  produce 

A  friendly  coalesc*  nee. 
Religion  should  extinguish  strife, 
And  make  a  calm  of"  hum. m  life  ; 

But  friends  that  chance  to  differ 
On  points  which  God  has  ieit  tit  large, 
How  fiercely  will  they  meet  and  charge, 

No  combatants  are  stiffcr  ! 
To  prove  at  last  my  main  intent. 
Needs  no  expense  of  argument, 

No  cutting  and  contriving — 
Seeking  a  real  friend,  we  seem 
T'  adopt  the  chy mists  golden  dream, 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriving. 
Sometimes  the  fault  is  all  our  own, 
Some  blemish  in  due  time  made  known, 

By  trespass  or  omission  ; 
Sometimes  occasion  brings  to  light 
Our  friend's  defect,  long  hid  from  sight, 

And  even  from  suspicion. 
Then  judge  yourself,  and  prove  your  man 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can  ; 

And  having  made  election, 
Beware  no  negligence  of  yours, 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endures, 

Kn feeble  his  affection. 
That  secrets  are  a  sacred  trust, 
That  friends  should  be  sincere  and  just, 

That  constancy  befits  them, 
Are  observations  on  the>case 
That  savour  much  of  common  place, 

And  all  the  world  admits  them. 
But  'tis  not  timber,  lead,  and  stone. 
An  architect  requires  alone, 

To  finish  a  fine  building — - 


3  Sequel  to  the  English  Ret 

The  palace  were  but  half  complete, 
If  he  could  r-t 

The  carving  any!  ih<   gilding. 
The  man  tiuu  hails  you,  Tom  or  Jack, 
And  proves,  by  thumps  upon  }our  back, 

How  he  esteems  your  merit, 
Is  such  a  fritnd,  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed, 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it. 
As  similarity  of  mind, 
Or  something  not  to  be  defnvd, 

First  fixes  our  attention  ; 
So,  manners  decent  and  polite, 
The  same  \ve  practis'd  at  first  sight, 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 
Some  act  upon  this  prudent  plan, 
"  Say  little  and  hear  all  you  can  j" 

Safe  policy  but  hateful — 
So  barren  sands  imbibe  the  show'r, 
But  render  neither  fruit  nor  flowY, 

Unpleasant  and  ungrateful. 
The  man  I  trust,  if  shy  to  me, 
Shall  find  me  as  reserved  as  he, 

No  subterfuge  or  pleading 
Shall  win  my  confidence  again  ; 
I  will  by  no  means  entertain 
A  spy  on  my  proceeding. 
These  samples — for  alas  \  at  last 
These  are  but  samples  and  a  taste 

Of  evils  yet  unmention'd — 
May  prove  the  task  a  task  indeed, 
In  which  'tis  much  if  we  succ>  eel, 

However  well-intention'd. 
Pursue  the  search,  and  you  will  find, 
Good  sense  and  knowledge  of  mankind 

To  be  at  least  expedient ; 
And  after  summing  all  the  rest, 
Religion  ruling  in  the  breast, 

A  principal  ingredient. 
The  noblest  friendship  ever  shown, 
The  Saviour's  history  makes  known, 
Though  some  have  turn'd  and  turn'd  it : 


Didactic  Pieces.  '179 

And  whether  being  craz'd  or  blind, 
Or  seeking  with  a  bias'd  mind, 

Have  not,  it  seems,  discern'd  it* 
Oh  Friendship  !  if  my  soul  forego 
Thy  dear  delights  while  here  below  ; 

To  mortify  and  grieve  me, 
May  I  myself  at  last  appear 
Unworthy,  base,  and  insincere, 

Or  may  my  friend  deceive  me  ! COWPER. 

SECTION  in. — Improvement  of  time  recommended. 

HE  mourns  the  dead,  who  lives  as  they  desire. 
Where  is  that  thrift,  that  avarice  of  Time, 
(Blest  av'rice  !)  which  the  thought  of  death  inspires? 
O  time  I  than  gold  more  sacred ;  more  a  load 
Than  lead,  to  fools ;  and  fools  reputed  wise. 
What  moment  granted  man  without  account? 
What  years  are  squander'd,  wisdom's  debt  unpaid  ? 
Haste,  haste,  he  lies  in  wait,  he's  at  the  door, 
Insidious  death  ;  should  his  strong  hand  arrest, 
No  composition  sets  the  prisoner  free. 
Eternity's  inexorable  chain 
Fast  binds  ;  and  vengeance  claims  the  full  arrear. 

How  late  I  shudder'd  on  the  brink  !  how  late 
Life  calFd  for  her  last  refuge  in  despair ! 
For  \vhat  calls  thy  disease?  for  moral  aid. 
Thou  think'st  it  folly  to  be  wise  too  soon* 
Youth  is  not  rich  in  time j  it  may  be  poor : 
Part  with  it  as  with  money,  sparing;  pay 
No  moment,  but  in  purchase  of  its  worth : 
And  what  its  worth,  ask  death-beds,  they  can  tell. 
Part  with  it  as  with  life,  reluctant;  big 
With  holy  hope  of  nobler  time  to  come. 

Is  this  our  duty,  wisdom,  glory,  gain  ? 
And  sport  we,  like  the  natives  of  the  bough, 
When  vernal  suns  inspire  ?   Amusement  reigns. 
Man's  great  demand  :  to  trifle  is  to  live: 
And  is  it  then  a  trifle,  too,  to  die  ? 
Who  wants  amusement  in  the  flame  of  battle  ? 
Is  it  not  treason  to  the  soul  immortal, 
Her  foes  in  arms,  eternity  the  prize  ? 
Will  toys  amuse,  when  medicines  cannofe  cure  ? 

*15 


1 8O  Sequd  to  the  English  Reader. 

When  spirits  ebb,  when  life's  enchanting  sc, 
Their  lustre  lose,  and  lessen  in  our  sight ; 
(As  lands,  and  cities  with  their  jjlitt'ring  spires 
To  the  poor  shattered  bark,  by  sudden  storm 
Thrown  off  to  sea,  and  soon  to  perish  there;  ) 
Will  toys  amuse  ? — No  :  thrones  will  then  be  toys, 
And  earth  and  skies  seem  dust  upon  the  scale. 

Redeem  we  time  ? — its  loss  we  dearly  buy. 
What  pleads  Lorenzo  for  his  high-priz'd  sports  ? 
He  pleads  time's  numerous  blanks  ;  he  loudly  pleads 
The  straw-like  trifles  on  life's  common  stream. 
From  whom  those  blanks  and  trifles  but  from  thee  ? 
No  blank,  no  trifle,  nature  made  or  meant. 
Virtue,  or  purpos'cl  virtue,  still  be  thine  : 
This  cancels  thy  complaint  at  once  ;  this  leaves 
In  act  no  trifle,  and  no  blank  in  time, 
This  greatens,  fills,  immortalizes  all : 
This,  the  blest  art  of  turning  all  to  gold  ; 
This,  the  good  heart's  prerogative  to  raise 
A  royal  tribute,  from  the  poorest  hours. 
Immense  revenue  !  ev'ry  moment  pays. 
It  nothing  more  than  purpose  in  thy  pow'r, 
Thy  purpose  firm,  is  equal  to  the  deed : 
Who  does  the  best  his  circumstance  allows, 

Does  well,  acts  nobly ;  angels  could  no  more. 

Our  outward  act,  indeed,  admits  restraint; 

?Tis  not  in  things  o'er  thought  to  domineer  ; 

Guard  well  thy  thoughts ;  our  thoughts  are  heard  in  heav'c 
On  all  important  time,  thro5  ev'ry  age, 

Tho"  much,  and  warm,  the  wise  have  urg'd ;  the  man 

Is  yet  unborn,  who  duly  weighs  an  hour. 

u  I've  lost  a  day" — the  prince  who  nobly  cried, 

Had  been  an  emperor  without  his  crown. 

He  spoke,  as  if  deputed  by  mankind. 

So  should  all  speak  ;  so  reason  speaks  in  all. 

From  the  soft  whispers  of  that  God  in  man, 

Why  fly  to  folly,  why  to  phn  nzy  fly, 

For  rescue  from  the  blessing  we  possess  ? 

Time,  the  supreme  ! — Time  is  eternity  ; 

Prtgnant  with  all  eternity  can  give, 

Pregnant  with  all  that  makes  arch-angels  smile: 

Who  murders  time,  he  crushes  in  the  birth 

A  pow'r  ethereal,  only  not  ador'd.  YOUNG. 


(481   ) 

CHAPTER  III.— DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 
SECTIOIJ  i. —  The  Spring. 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear  ; 
Disclose  the  long-expected  fiow'rs     * 

And  wake  the  purple  year  ! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  thro^, 
Responsive  to 'the  cuckoo's  note, 

The  untaught  harmony  of  Spring  ;       • 
While,  whispVing  pleasure  as  tiw  iljr, 
Cool  zephyrs  thro'  the  clear  blue  sky 

Tl^eir  gatlur'd  fragrance  fling. 
Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade  ; 
Where'erjthe  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade  ; 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink, 
With  me* the  Muse  shall  sit  and  jtljfhk 

^At  ease  reciin'd  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great ! 
Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  care ; 

The  panting  herds  repose: 
Yet,  hark,  how  ihro'  the  peopled  air. 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 
Eager  to  taste  the  honeyM  spring, 

And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  :'. 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 

Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 
To  contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  man  ; 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly, 

Shall  end  where  they  began.  . 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay- 
Bat  flutter  thro'  life's  iittie  day, 

In  fortune's  varying  colours  drest  : 
BrushM  by  the  hana  of  rough  mischance, 
Or  chill'd  by  age,  their  airy  dan.;.- 

They  leave  in  dust  to  rest*   •     -GRAY*" 


1 32  ScqiteTto  the  English  Reader. 

SECTION  ir. — Description  o/' winter  at  Copenhagen, 
FROM  frozen  climes,  and  endlessktr^cts  of  snow, 
From  streams  thut  northern  winds  forbid  to  Cow* 
What  present  sliali  tin-  muse  to  Dorset  bring, 
Or  how,  so  nea*  the  Pole,  attempt  to  sing  ? 
Thr  hoary  winteV  h»-re  conceals  from  sight 
All  pleasing  oSjeqto  that  to  verse  invite. 
The  hills  and  <h.les,  and  the  delightfujk  woods, 
The  flow'ry  plains  .md  silver-streaming  floods, 
By  snow  Sisgi^M,  in  bright  confusion  ife, 
And  with  one  dazzling  waste  fatigue  the  eye. 
^  N  breathing  breeze  prepares  the  spring, 

No  birds  \\ith  n  the  desert  region  sing. 
The  ships,  unmov'd,  ti     hoist*  rous  winds  defy, 
While  rattling  chariots  o'er  tile  ocean  fly. 
The  va^t  1  viuthan  wants  room  to  play,       • 
And  spout  his  waters  in  the  face  ot  day. 
The  starving  woWes  along  the  main  s.ea  prowl, 
And  to  the  moon  iiKicy  valleys  howl. 
I'or  many  a  shining  Iragu-    the  level  main 
Here  spr^nd-  tp  a  glassy  plain: 

I'here  solid  bilious  of  tnormous  size, 

% 

Alps  of  gretn  ice,  in  wild  disorder  rise. 

And  yet  but  lauly  have  I  seen,  e'en  here, 

The  winter  in  a  loveh   dn-ss  appear. 

Ere  yet  the  clouds  let  fall  the  tr^asur'd  snow, 

Or  winds  began  thro7  h.*zy  skies  to  blow, 

At  evening  a  keen  eastern  brtczt,  arose  j 

And  thr  descending  rain  unsullied  froze. 

Soon  as  the  silent  shades  of  night  withdrew, 

Thv   ruddy  morn  cii-clos'd  at  once  to  view 

The  face  of  nature  in  a  rich  disguise, 

And  bright-.jn?d  ev'ry  object  to  my  eyes: 

For  tVry  shrub,  and  ev'ry  blade  of  grass, 

And  ev'ry  pointed  thorn,  seem'd  wrought  in  glass. 

In  pearls  and  rubies  rich  the  hawthorn  show, 

While  thro*  the  ice  the  crimson  berries  glow. 

The  thick-sprung  reeds  the  watVy  marshes  yield 

Seem  polish'd  lances  in  a  hostile  fitld. 

The  Stag,  in  limpid  currents,  with  surprise 

Sees  crystal  branches  on  his  fort-head  rise. 

The  spreading  oak,  the  beech,  the  towYmg  piiie. 


^Descriptive  Pieces.  183 

£ilaz'd  over,  in  the  freezing  ether  shine. 

The  frighted  birds  the  rattling  branches  shun, 

That  wave  and  glitter  in  the  distant  sun. 

When,  if  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  arise, 

The  brittle  forest  into  atoms  flies  ; 

The  crackling  wood  beneath  the  tempest  bends. 

And  in  a  spangled  show'r  the  prospect  ends  : 

Or,  if  a  southern  gale  tj|e  region  warm, 

And  by  degrees  unbind  the  wintVy  charm, 

Th'/travelkr  a  miry  country  sees, 

And  journeys  sad  beneath  th.v  dropping  trees. 

Likvj  some  deluded  peasant  Merlin  leads 
Thro*  fragrant  bow'rs,  and  thro'  delicious  meads ; 
While  here  enchanting  gardens  to  him  rise, 
And  airy  fabrics  there  attract  his  eyes, 
Ills  wandYing  feet  the  magic  path  pursue ; 
And  while  he  thinks  the  fair  illusion  true, 
The  trackless  ^enes  disperse  in  fluid  air, 
And  woods,  and  wilds,  and  thorny  waves  appear : 
A  tedious  road  the  weary  wretch  returns, 
And,  as  he  goes,  the  trancient  vision  mourns.— PHILLIPS* 

SECTION  in. — Night  described*  • 

Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had,  in  her  sober  liv'ry,  all  things  clad. 
Silence  accompanied ;  for  beasts  and  birds, 
Those  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  ne 
Were  slunk ;  all  hut  the  wakeful  nightingale  : 
She  all  night  long  her  plaintive  descant  sung. 
Silence  was  pleas'd.   Now  glow'd  -the  firmamenj, 
Wiih  living  sapphires.   Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length, 
Apparent  queen,  unveil'd  her  peerless  light ; 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 


Night,  sable  power !  from  her  ebon  throne, 
In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumb'ring  world. 
Silence,  how  dead,  and  darkness,  how  profound  I 
Nor  eye,  nor  list'ning  ear,  an  object  finds : 
Creation  sleeps.  'Tis  as  the  gen'ral  pulse 


184-  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

Of  life  stood  still,  and  nature  made  a  pause, 

An  awful  pause  !  prophetic  of  her  end. YOUNG 

SECTION  iv. — Grongar  hill. 
SILENT  Nymph  !  with  curious  eye, 
Who,  the  purple  eve,  dost  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  rujm, 

:^  fair  the  form  of  things, 
While  the  vcllow  linnet  .sings  ; 
Oi   the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale; 
Conn-,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 
Come,  and  aid  thy  sist<  r  Muse. 
Now,  while  Phoebus  riding  high, 
Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky,  fc 

Grongar  hill  invites  my  song, 
Dr;i\\  the  landscape  bright  and  strong 
Grongar  I  in  whose  mossy  cells. 
Sweetly  nui-ing  quiet  cl\\elis  \ 
GTongar  !  in  \yhose  silent  shade, 
For  the  modest  Muses  made, 
So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 
At  the  fountain  of  a  rill, 
Sat  upon  a  flowVy  bed, 
With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 
While  stray'd  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 
O\4P  mead  and  over  wood, 
From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 
'Till  contemplation  had  her  fill. 

Jtbout  his  chequer'd  sides  I  wind, 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind  ; 
Aivl  groves  and  grottos,  where  I  lay, 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  uay. 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 
A^hcles  on  a  smooth  canal  : 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate. 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height  ! 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skics^ 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 
Suit  the  prospect  wid^r  spr  -ads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads  ;, 


Descriptive  Pieces. 

Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 
And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene ; 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  nature  show 
In  all  the  hues  of  heav  Vs  bow  ; 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  tow'ring  in  the  skies  j 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires : 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow-mountain  heads, 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumber'd  rise. 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew  ; 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad  spread  boughs  : 
And,  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  virtue,  peace,  and  love ! 
Gaudy  as  the  op'ning  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wand'ring  eye. 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towsy's  flood ; 
His  sides  are  cloth'd  with  waving  wood  ; 
And  ancient  tow'rs  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 
•Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps : 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind, 
In  mutual  dependence,  find. 

?Tis  ROW  the  raven's  bleak  abode, 
*Tis  now  th'  apartment  of  the  toad  ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds, 
And  there  the  pois'nous  adder  breeds, 
Conceal'd  in  rums,  moss,  and  weeds ; 


188  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents'  cnre  ; 
Parents,  who  know  no  chiidien's  love,  dwell  there  , 
H-  ot-broken  matrons  on  tlu-ir  joUcss  bed, 
Foisaken  wives,  and  mothers  never  v.  t  d  ; 
DejYcted  widows  with  unheeded  t 
Ana  crippled  age  \vnh  moix  than  childhood  fears  ; 
Thi    lame,  the  blind,   w\  happiest  they  ! 

Tht^moping  idiot,  and  the  madn- 

Here  too  the  sick  their  final  doom  le reive, 
Here  brought,  amui  i<  f,  to  grieve 

Where  the  loud  gioans  from  some  sac!  chamber  flow. 
2VIix'd  with  the  ci.imours  of  the  crowd  below  ; 
Here  sorrowing  the\   each  kindred  sorrow  scan, 
And  the  cold  chari  .<n  to  man  : 

Whose  laws  indeed  lor  n:  provide, 

And  strong  compulsion  plucks  the  s>  rnp  from  pride  : 
But  still  that  scrap  is  bought  wiiii  many  a  sigh, 
And  pride  embitters  what  it  can't  dt  n\  . 

Say,  ye  oppressed  by  some  fantastic  woes, 
Some  jarring  nerve  that  bafiles  your  repose  ; 
Who  press  the  downy  couch,  whil  advance 

With  timirl  eye,  to  i  >nt  glance  ; 

Who  with  sad  prax'rs  I'IK  ioaor  tease 

To  name  th'  ase  ; 

AVh(;  with  mock -pat;  ints  endure, 

Which  real  pain,  and  ai  euic  ; 

Hovv  would  you  h«.:.r  in 
Despis'd,  neglected,  left  aluue  to  d'u-  ? 
How  would  }t   !)ear  to  draw  \om  latest  breath, 
Where  all  that's  wretched  pav-.s  til*-  way  for  death  ? 

Such  is  that  room  whi   i    one  am  divides, 

A ••'•.!  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  si 
Where  the  vile  bands  th.a  bind  thu  are  seen, 

And  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  between  ; 
Save  one  dull  pane,  that,  coarsely  patch'd,  gives  way 
To  the  rude  tempest,  yet  excludes  the  dny  : 
Here^on  a  matted  flock,  with  dust  o'crspread, 
The  Grooping  wretch  reclines  his  languid  head. 
For  mm  no  hand  the  cordial  cup  applies, 
Nor  wipes  the  tear  that  stagnates  hi  his  eyes  ; 
No  friends  with  soft  discourse  his  pain  beguile, 
Nor  promise  hope  till  sickness  wears  a  smile,— CR ABBE. 


Descriptive  Pieces. 

SECTION  TV. — A  Summer  Evening*?  Meditation. 
"  Oue  sun  by  day,  by  night  ten  thousand  shine.'1  YOUNG, 

'Tis  past !  the  sultry  tyrant  of  the-  south 
Has  spent  his  short-livM  rage,      More  grateful  hours 
Move  silent  on.     The  -.kies  no  more  repel 
The  dazzled  sight  ;  hut,  with  mild  maiden  heams 
Of  tern pe r'd  light,  invite  UK  cherished  eye 
To  wander  oVr  their  sphere  ;  where,  hung  aloft, 
Dianas  bright  crescent,  like  a  silver  hpvv 
SVw  strung  in  heav'n,  lifts  high  its  beamy  horns, 
[mpatient  ior  the  night,  und  seems  to  push 
HU-r  brother  down  the  sky.      Fair  Venus  shines 
E'en  in  the  eye  of  day  ;  with  sweetest  beam 
propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood     r 
Df  soften'd  radiance  from  her  dewy  locks. 
The  shadows  spread  apace ;  while  mceken'd  eve, 
tier  cheek  yet  warm  with  blu  hes,  slow  retires 
Thro'  the  Hesperian  gardens  of  the  west, 
And  shuts  the  gates  of  day.     'Tis  now  the  hour 

hen  contemplation,  from  her  sunless  haunts, 
The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  the  lonely  depth 
Df  unpierc'd  woods,  where,  wrapt  in  silent  shade, 
She  mus'd  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 
And  fed  on  thoughts  unripen'd  by  the  sun, 
Vloves  forward  ;  and  with  radiant  finger  points 
To  yon  blue  concave,  swell'd  by  breath  divine, 
/Vhere,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heav'n 
\wake,  quick  kindling  oVr  the  face  of  ether 
3ne  boundless  blaze  ;  ten  thousand  trembling  fires, 
And  dancing  lustres,  where  th'  unsteady  eye, 
Restless  and  dazzled,  wanders  uncoufin'd 
O'er  all  this  field  of  glories :  spacious  field, 
And  worthy  of  the  Master !  he  whose  hand, 
/Vith  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Nile, 
nscrib'd  the  mystic  tablet,  hung  on  high 
[]o  public  gaze  ;  and  said,  Adore,  O  man, 
The  finger  of  thy  God!  From  what  pure  wells 
Of  milky  light,  what  soft  o'erfiowing  urn, 
Are  all  these  lamps  so  fill'd  ?  these  friendly  lamps, 
7or  ever  streaming  o'er  the  azure  deep, 
To  point  our  path,  and  light  us  to  our  home. 


190  Scqurl  to  the  English  Reader. 

How  soft  they  slide  along  their  lucid  spheres! 

And,  silent  as  tlvj  loot  ol  .161 

Their  destin'd  c  hush'd, 

And,  but  a  sea'*  .  M/ 

The  thick-wove 

To  br  ak  ;!T.    n>i  ear, 

Intensely  listening,  drinks  in  i 

How  deep  the  silence.  ^  praise! 

But  are  they  siK -;:  not 

A  tongiu.  in  ev'ry  star  that  talks  with  man. 

And  woos  him  t  nor  woos  in  vain  : 

This  dead  of  midnig;  p.oon  ot"  thought, 

And  wisdom  mounis  her  zenith  with  the  s 

At  this  still  hour  the  self-collected  soul 

Turns  inward,  an  -tranter  there 

Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  moral  rank  ; 

An     mbryo  God  ;  a  spark  of  fire  divine, 

Which  must  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sun 

(Fair  transitory  creaUire  of  a  day  '.) 

Has  clos'd  his  golden  eye,  and,  wrapt  in  shades, 

Forgets  his  wonted  journey  thro"  the  east. 

Ye  citadels  of  light,  and  seats  of  bliss  ! 
Perhaps  my  future  home,  from  whence  the  soul, 
Revolving  periods  past,  may  oft  look  back, 
With  recollected  tenderness,  on  all 
The  various  busy  scenes  she  left  below, 
Its  deep-laid  projects,  and  its  strange  events, 
As  on  some  fond  and  doting  tale  that  sooth'd 
Her  infant  hours. — O  be  it  lawful  now 
To  tread  the  hallow'd  circle  of  your  courts, 
And,  with  mute  wonder  and  delighted  awe, 
Approach  your  burning  confines  !— Seiz'd  in  thought, 
On  fancy's  wild  and  roving  wing  I  sail 
From  trie  green  borders  of  the  peopled  earth, 
And  the  pale  moon,  her  duteous  fair  attendant; 
From  solitary  Mars ;  from  the  vast  orb 
Of  Jupiter,  whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 
Dances  in  ether  like  the  lightest  leaf; 
To  the  dim  verge,  the  suburbs  of  the  system, 
Where  cheerless  Saturn,  'midst  his  wat'ry  moons. 
Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp, 
Sits  like  an  exii'd  monarch.     Fearless  thence 


Descriptive  Pieces.  191 

I  launch  into  the  trackless  deeps  ot  space, 

Where,  burning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appear, 

Of  elder  beam  ;  which  ask  no  leave  to  shine 

Ol  our  terrt  stial  star,  nor  borrow  light 

From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day : 

Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born  of  creation, 

And  <>nlv  less  than  he  who  marks  their  track, 

And  guides  their  fiery  wheels.      Here  must  I  stop, 

Or  is  there  au^ht  beyond  ?   What  hand  unseen 

Impels  me  onward,  thro'  the  glowing  orbs 

Of  habitable  nature,  far  remote, 

To  tht-  dread  confines  of  eternal  night. 

To  solitudes  of  vast  unpeopled  space, 

The  deserts  of  creation,  wide  and  wild, 

Where  embryo  systems  and  unkinciled  suns 

Sleep  in  the  womb  of  chaos  ?  Fancy  droops, 

And  thought  astonish'd  stops  her  bold  career. 

But,  oh,  thou  mighty  MIND  !  whose  powerful  word 

Said,  Thus  let  all  things  be,  and  thus  they  were, 

Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presto  ?  how,  unblam'd, 

Invoke  thy  dread  perfection  ?• 

H  ive  the?  broad  eye  lids  of  the  morn  beheld  thee 

Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Orion. 

Support  thy  throne  ?  O  look  with  pity  down 

On  erring,  guilty  man !  not  in  thy  names 

Of  terror  clad;  not  with  those  thunders  arm'd 

That  conscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appall'd 

The  scattered  tribes :  ihou  hast  a  gentler  voice, 

That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart, 

Ab,'ish'd,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker. 

But  now  my  soul,  unus'd  to  stretch  her  pow'rs 
In  flight  so  daring,  drops  her  weary  wing, 
And  seeks  again  tht  known  accustom'd  spot, 
Drest  up  w'uh  sun,  and  shade,  and  lawns,  and  streams ? 
A  mansion  fair  and  spacious  for  its  guest, 
And  full  replete  with  wonders.     Let  me  here, 
Content  and  grateful,  wait  th'  appointed  time, 
And  ripen  for  the  skies:  the  hour  will  come 
When  all  these  splendours  bursting  on  my  sight 
Shall  stand  unveilM,  and  to  my  ravish'd  sense 
Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unknown. — JBAJIBA: 


192  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

SECTION  vii. — Cheerfulness. 

FAIR  as  the  dawning  light!  auspicious  guest, 
Source  of  all  comfort  to  the  human  breast ! 
Depriv'd  of  thee,  in  sad  despair  we  moan, 
And  tedious  roll  the  heavy  moments  on. 
Though  beauteous  objects  all  around  us  rise, 
To  charm  the  fancy,  and  delight  the  eyes  ; 
Tho*  art's  fair  works  and  nature's  gifts  conspire 
To  please  each  sense,  and  satiate  each  desire, 
'Tis  joyless  all — till  thy  enlivening  ray 
Scatters  the  melancholy  gloom  away. 
Then  opens  to  the  soul  a  heavenly  scene, 
Gladness  and  peace,  all  sprightly,  all  serene. 

Where  dost  thou  deign,  say,  in  what  blest  retreat, 
To  choose  thy  mansion,  and  to  fix  thy  seat  ? 
Thy  sacred  presence  how  shall  we  explore  ? 
Can  av'rice  gain  thee  with  her  golden  store  ? 
Can  vain  ambition,  with  her  boasted  charms, 
Tempt  thee  within  her  wide-extended  tirms  ? 
No,  with  Content  alone  canst  thou  ab'de, 
Thy  sister,  ever  smiling  by  thy  side. 

When  boon  companions,  void  of  ev'ry  care,         "1 
Crown  the  full  bowl,  and  the  rich  banquet  share,      S- 
And  give  a  loose  to  pleasure — art  thou  there  ?         J  - 
Or  when  the  assembled  great  and  fair  advance 
To  celebrate  the  mask,  the  play,  the  dance, 
Whilst  beauty  spreads  its  sweetest  charms  around,      ~J 
And  airs  ecstatic  swell  their  tuneful  sound, 
Art  thou  within  the  pompous  circle  found  ?  J 

Does  not  thy  influence  more  sedately  shine  ? 
Can  such  tumultuous  joys  as  these  be  thine  ? 
Surely  more  mild,  more  constant  in  their  course, 
Thy  pleasures  issue  from  a  nobler  source  ; 
From  sweet  discretion  ruling  in  the  breast, 
From  passions  tempered,  and  from  lusts  represt  ; 
From  thoughts  unconscious  of  a. guilty  smart, 
And  the  calm  transports  of  an  honest  heart. 

Thy  aid,  O  ever  faithful,  ever  kind  ! 
Thro'  life,  thro'  death,  attends  the  virtuous  mind; 
Of  angry  fate  wards  from  us  ev'ry  blow, 
Cures/ Vry  ill,  and  softens  ev'ry  wo. 
Whatever  good  our  mortal  state  desires, 


Descriptive  Pieces.  19 J 

What  wisdom  finds,  or  innocence  inspires  ; 

From  nature's  bounteous  hand  whatever  flows, 

Whatever  our  Maker's  providence  bestows, 

By  thee  mankind  enjoys  ;  by  thee  repays 

A  grateful  tribute  of  perpetual  praise.- FITSGLRALD, 

SECTION  VIH. — -Providence. 

Lo  !  now  the  ways  of  heavVs  eternal  King 
To  man  are  open  ! 

Review  them  and  adore  !  Hear  the  loud  voice 
Of  Wisdom  sounding  in  her  works  !— a  Attend, 
Ye  sons  of  men  !  ye  children  of  the  dust, 
Be  wise  !  Lo  !  I  was  present,  when  the  Sire 
Of  heav'n  pronounced  his  fiat  ;  when  his  eye 
Glanc'd  thro'  the  gulf  of  darkness,  and  his  hand 
Fashion'd  the  rising  universe  : — I  saw, 
O'er  the  fair  lawns,  the  heaving  mountains  raise 
Their  pine-clad  spires  ;  and  down  the  shaggy  cliff 
I  gave  the  rill  to  murmur.     The  rough  mounds 
That  bound  the  madd'ning  deep  ;  the  storm  that  roars 
;  Along  the  desert ;  the  volcano  fraught 
With  burning  brimstone  ; — I  prescribe  their  ends.j 
I  rule  the  rushing  winds,  and,  on  their  wings 
Triumphant,  walk  the  tempest. — To  my  call 
Obsequious  bellows  the  red  bolt,  that  tears 
The  cloud's  thin  mantle,  when  the  gushing  show'r 
Descending  copious  bids  the  desert  bloom." 

u  I  gave  to  man's  dark  search  superior  light ; 
And  clear  d  dim  reason's  misty  view,  to  mark 
His  pow'rs,  as  through  revolving  ages  tried, 
They  rose  not  to  his  Maker.     Thus  prepar'd 
To  know  how  distant    rom  his  narrow  ken 
The  truths  by  heav'n  reveal'd,  my  hand  displayed 
The  plan  fair-op'ning,  where  each  nobler  view, 
That  swells  th'  expanding  heart  ;  each  glorious  hope? 
That  points  ambition  to  its  goal  ;  each  aim. 
That  stirs,  exalts,  and  animates  desire  ; 
Pours  on  the  mind's  wrapt  sight  a  noon-tide  ray." 

"  Nor  less  in  life  employed,  'tis  mint-  to  raise 
The  desolate  of  heart ;  to  bend  the  brow 
Of  stubborn  pride,  to  bid  reluctant  ire 
Subside  ;  to  tame  rude  nature  to  the  rein 


192  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

SECTION  vn. — Cheerfulness. 

FAIR  as  the  dawning  light!  auspicious  guest, 
Source  of  all  comfort  to  the  human  breast ! 
Depriv'd  of  thee,  in  sad  despair  we  moan, 
And  t'.dious  roll  the  heavy  moments  on. 
Though  beauteous  objects  all  around  us  rise, 
To  charm  the  fancy,  and  delight  the  eyes  ; 
Tho*  art's  fair  works  and  nature's  gifts  conspire 
To  please  each  sense,  and  satiate  each  desire, 
vfis  joyless  all — till  thy  enlivening  ray 
Scatters  the  melancholy  gloom  away. 
Then  opens  to  the  soul  a  heavenly  scene, 
Gladness  and  peace,  all  sprightly,  all  serene. 

Where  dost  thou  deign,  say,  in  what  blest  retreat, 
To  choose  thy  mansion,  and  to  fix  thy  seat  ? 
Thy  sacred  presence  how  shall  we  explore  ? 
Can  av'rice  gain  thee  with  her  golden  store  ? 
Can  vain  ambition,  with  her  boasted  charms, 
Tempt  thee  within  her  wide-extended  *irms  ? 
No,  with  Content  alone  canst  thou  ab'de, 
Thy  sister,  ever  smiling  by  thy  side. 

When  boon  companions,  vo'ui  of  ev'ry  care,          "Y 
Crown  the  full  bowl,  and  the  rich  banquet  share,      V 
And  give  a  loose  to  pleasure — art  thou  there  ?          J  * 
Or  when  the  assembled  great  and  fair  advance 
To  celebrate  the  mask,  the  play,  the  dance, 
Whilst  beauty  spreads  its  sweetest  charms  around, 
And  airs  ecstatic  swell  their  tuneful  sound, 
Art  thou  within  the  pompous  circle  found  ? 
Does  not  thy  influence  more  sedately  shine  ? 
Can  such  tumultuous  joys  as  these  be  thine  ? 
Surely  more  mild,  more  constant  in  their  course, 
Thy  pleasures  issue  from  a  nobler  source  ; 
From  sweet  discretion  ruling  in  the  breast, 
From  passions  tempered,  and  from  lusts  represt  ; 
From  thoughts  unconscious  of  a -guilty  smart, 
And  the  calm  transports  of  an  honest  heart. 

Thy  aid,  O  ever  faithful,  ever  kind  ! 
Thro'"  life,  thro'  death,  attends  the  virtuous  mind; 
Of  angry  fate  wards  from  us  ev'ry  blow, 
Cures/ Vry  ill,  and  softens  ev'ry  wo. 
Whatever  good  our  mortal  state  desires, 


Descriptive  Pieces.  19  J 

What  wisdom  finds,  or  innocence  inspires  ; 

From  nature's  bounteous  hand  whatever  flows, 

Whatever  our  Maker's  providence  bestows, 

By  thee  mankind  enjoys  ;  by  thee  repays 

A  grateful  tribute  of  perpetual  praise. FITSGERALO> 

SECTION  VIH. — -Providence. 

Lo  !  now  the  ways  of  heav'n's  eternal  King 
To  man  are  open  1 

Review  them  and  adore  !  Hear  the  loud  voice 
Of  Wisdom  sounding  in  her  works  !— u  Attend, 
Ye  sons  of  men  !  ye  children  of  the  dust, 
Be  wise  !  Lo  !  I  was  present,  when  the  Sire 
Of  heav'n  pronounc'd  his  fiat  ;  when  his  eye 
Glanc'd  thro'  the  gulf  of  darkness,  and  his  hand 
Fashion'd  the  rising  universe^: — I  saw, 
O'er  the  fair  lawns,  the  heaving  mountains  raise 
Their  pine-clad  spires  ;  and  down  the  shaggy  cliff 
I  gave  the  rill  to  murmur.     The  rough  mounds 
That  bound  the  madd'ning  deep  ;  the  storm  that  roars. 
Along  the  desert ;  the  volcano  fraught 
With  burning  brimstone  ; — I  prescribe  their  ends.j 
I  rule  the  rushing  winds,  and,  on  their  wings 
Triumphant,  walk  the  tempest. — To  my  call 
Obsequious  bellows  the  red  bolt,  that  tears 
The  cloud's  thin  mantle,  when  the  gushing  show'r 
Descending  copious  bids  the  desert  bloom. " 

u  I  gave  to  man's  dark  search  superior  light ; 
And  clear'd  dim  reason's  misty  view,  to  mark 
His  pow'rs,  as  through  revolving  ages  tried, 
They  rose  not  to  his  Maker.     Thus  prepar'd 
To  know  how  distant    roin  his  narrow  ken 
The  truths  by  heav'n  reveal'd,  my  hand  displayed 
The  plan  fair-op'ning,  where  each  nobler  view, 
That  swells  th'  expanding  heart ;  each  glorious  hope? 
That  points  ambition  to  its  goal  ;  each  aim. 
That  stirs,  exalts,  and  animates  desire  ; 
Pours  on  the  mind's  wrapt  sight  a  noon-tide  ray." 

u  Nor  less  in  life  employ'd,  'tis  mint-  to  raise 
The  desolate  of  heart  ;  to  bend  the  brow 
Oi  stubborn  pride,  to  bid  reluctant  ire 
Subside  ;  to  tame  rude  nature  to  the  rein 


:cqud  to  the  English  Reader. 

Ot  virtue.  What  tho%  screened  from  mortal  view, 
I  walk  the  deep'ning  ^loom  ?  What  tho'  my  w;r,  s, 
Remote  from  tlv  '>ewilder'd  search,  are  wrapt 

Li  triple  darkness  ? — Yet  I  work  the  springs 
Ot  life,  and  to  the  genVal  good  direct 
Th'obsequious  means  to  move. — O  ye,  who  toss'd 
On  life's  tumultuous  ocean,  eye  the  sh 
Yet  far  remov'd  ;  and  wish  the  happy  hour, 
When  slumber  on  her  downy  couch  shall  lull 
Your  cares  to  sv  awhile, 

And  I  will  jvuide  you  to  the  balmy  climes 
Of  rest  ;  will  by  the  silver  stream 

Crown'd  with  elvsian  bow'rs,  where  p  nds 

Her  blooming  olive,  and  the  temp. 
Its  killing  blast  no  m 

i  irj  ;  thus  calls  him  thro    i  :.  il  form 

Of  nature,  thro'  R  Tigion's  ftilier  noon,; 
Thro'  lii  lYuig  mazes  ;  to  observe 

LVIE. 

,T10S   IX. '..  i  •'-/,'/. 

AT  the  destinM  hour, 

By  the  loud  •  charge, 

S(-e,  dl  tile  i r . 

Eruptions,  earthquakes,  Cf  htnings,  play 

Th<  r  'lies  ;  all  at  once  disj; 

Their  hlaz.ng  jnag-tzir.es  :  and  take  by  storm 

rrestrial  tit  d  1  or  man. 

A  -i-izing  period  !  \vhen  e  ch   n-  untain-height 
Oui-burns  Vesurius  ;  rocks  eternal  pour 
Their  melted  mass,  as  rivers  once  they  pour'd ; 
Strirs  rush  ;  and  final  ruin  fiercely  drives 
Her  ploughshare  O\T  creation  ! — while  aloft, 
M  >r    than  astonishment  !  if  more  can  ' 
Far  other  firmament  than  «-Vr  was  seen, 
Th'-in  e'er  was- thought  by  man  !  far  other  stars  L 
S         animate,  that  govern  these  of  fire  ; 
Far  other  suv  ! — A  su«>,  O  how  unlike 
The  bain  jm  I   "Mow  unlike  the  man 

That  groan'd  on  Calvary  !  Yet  HE  it  is  ;  •• 
Thcit  man  of  sorrov.-s  !  O  how  changVi  !  what  pomp ! 
In  grandeur  terrible,  all  heav'n  descends  : 


Descriptive  Pieces.  1 

A  swift  archangel,  with  his  golden  wing, 
As  blots  and  clouds,  that  darken  and  disgrace 
The  scene  divine,  sweeps  stars  and  suns  aside. 
And  now,  all  dross  removed,  heavVs  own  pure  day, 
Full  on  the  confines  of  our  ether,  flames : 
While,  (dreadful  contrast  !)  far,  how  far  beneath  ! 
Hell,  bursting,  brlches  forth  her  blazing  seas, 
And  storms  sulphureous  ;  her  voracious  jaws 
Expanding  wide,  and  roaring  for  her  prey. 

At  midnight,  when  mankind  is  wrapp'd  in  peace, 
And  worldlv  fancy  feeds  on  golden  dreams, 
Man,  starting  from  his  couch,  shall  sleep  no  more  ! 
The  day  is  broke,  which  never  more  shall  close  ! 
Above,  around,  beneath,  amazement  all ! 
Terror  and  glorv  joined  in  their  ex.remes  ! 
Oar  God  in  grandeur,  and  our  world  on  fire  ! 
All  nature  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death ! 
}j£,t  thou  not  hear  her  ?  dosjt  thou  not  deplore 
Her  strong  convulsions,  and  her  final  groan  ? 
Where  are  we  now  ?    Ah  me  I  the  ground  is  gone 
On  which  we  stood!  Lorenzo  I  while  thou  mayst, 
Provide  more  firm  support,  or  sink  for  ever! 
Where  ?  how  '  from  whence  ?  vain  hope  !  it  is  too  late  f 
Where,  where,  for  shelter,  shall  the  guilty  fly, 
When  consternation  turns  the  good  man  pale  ? 

Great  day !  for  which  all  other  days  were  made  ; 
For  which  earth  rose  from  chaos  ;  man  from  earth ;. 
And  an  eternity,  the  date  of  gods, 
Descended  on  poor  earth-created  man  ! 
Great  day  of  dread  decision,  and  despair  ! 
At  thought  of  thee,  each  sublunary  wish 
Lets  go  its  eager  grasp,  and  drops  the  world  ; 
And  catches  at  each  reed  of  hope  m  heav'n. 
Already  is  begun  the  grand  assize, 
In  us,fin  all:  deputed  conscience  scales 
The  dread  tribunal,  and  forestalls  our  doom  ; 
Forestalls  ;  and,  by  forestalling,  proves  it  sure. 
Why  on  himself  should  man  void  judgment  pass? 
Is  idle  nature  laughing  at  her  sons  ? 
Who  conscience  sent,  her  sentence  will  support, 
And  God  above  assert  that  God  in  man. 
Thrice  happy  they,  that  enter  now  the  court 


Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

Heaven  opens  in  their  bosoms;  hut  how  rare! 

Ah  me!  th.it  magnanimity,  how  ran  ! 

What  hero,  like  the  man  who  stands  himself? 

Who  dares  to  meet  his  naked  heart  alone  ; 

Who  hears  intrepid  the  lull  charge  it  brings, 

R-jsoh  M  t<    silence  i'.iuire  murmurs  there  ? 

The  coward  flies,  and,  fl\  \    j.  is  undone. 

Sh;ill  man  alone,  uh  ^e  final  fate, 

Hangs  on  that  hour,  exclude  it  from  his  thought? 

I  think  of  nothing  else  ;  J  set-  !  I  leel  it  ! 

All  n.it-.ire,  lik-    ,;ii  earthquake,  trembljtog  round  ! 

I  see  the  Judge  en'hronM!  the  flaming  guard! 

The  volume  o;  enM  !  npcn'd  ev'ry  heart! 

A  sun  I)  ret  thought  ! 

No  patron!  intercessor  none!  now  past 

Tli--  s-.viet,  the  clement,  mediatorial  hour! 

For  guilt  no  plea!  to  pain,  no  pause  !  no  bound, 

Inexhorable,  all !  and  all  e 

Nor  man  alone  ;  the  foe  of  God  and  mar. 

From  his  dark  d«-n,  blaspheming,  drars  his  chain, 

And  rears  h  -i  front,  with  thunder  scarr'd. 

"Like  meteors  in  a  stormy  sky,  how  roll 

His  baleful  eyes  1  he  curses  whom  he  dreads  ; 

And  deems  it  the  first  moment  of  his  fall. YOUNG. 


CHAPTER  IV.— PATHETIC  PIECES. 

SECTION  i. — Hymn  to  Humanity. 
PARENT  of  virtue,  if  thine  ear 

Attend  not  now  to  sorrow's  cry; 
If  now  the  pity-streaming  tear 

S  ould  haply  on  thy  cheek  be  dry  ; 
Indulge  my  votiv    strain,  O  sweet  Human 
Come,  ever  welcome  to  my  breast, 
A  t'-nder,  but  a  cheerful  guest  ! 
Nor  i-i-.vays  in  the  gloomy  cell 
Of  life-consuming  sorrow  dwell  ; 
For  sorrow,  long  indulged  and  slow, 
Is  to  Humanity  a  foe  ; 
And  grief,  that  makes  the  heart  its  prey, 
Wears  sensibility  away. 
Then  comes,  sweet  nymph,  instead  of  thee, 


Pathetic  Pieces. 

The  gloomy  fiend  Stupidity. 

O  may  that  fiend  be  banish'd  far, 

Though  passions  hold  perpetual  war  ! 

Nor  ever  let  me  cease  to  know 

The  pulse  that  throbs  at  joy  or  wo* 

N'>r  let  my  vacant  cheek  be  dry, 

When  sorrow  fills  a  brother's  eye  ; 

Nor  may  the  tear  that  frequyn    flows, 

From  private  or  from  social  woes, 

E'er  make  this  pleasing  sense  depart : 

Ye  cares,  O  harden  not  my  heart  I 

If  the  fair  star  of  iortune  smile, 

Let  not  its  flutt'ring  pow'r  beguile  ; 

Nor,  borne  along  the  fav'ring  tide, 

My  full  sails  swell  with  bloating  pride, 

Let  me  from  wealth  but  hope  content, 

Hernemb'riag  still  it  was  but  lent ; 

To  modest  merit  spread  my  store, 

Unbar  my  hospitable  door ; 

Nor  feed,  for  pomp,  ah  idle  train, 

Whilf  want  unpitied  pines  in  vain. 

-If  Heav'n,  in  ev'ry  purpose  wise, 

The  envied  lot  of  wealth  denies  ; 

If  doom'd  to  drag  life's  painful  load 

Through  poverty's  uneven  road, 

And,  for  the  due  bread  of  the  day, 

D;jstin'd  to  toil  as  well  as  pray  ; 

To  thee,  Humanity,  still  true, 

I'll  wish  the  good  I  cannot  do  ; 

And  give  the  wretch,  that  passes  by, 

A  soothing  word — a  tear — a  sigh. 

Hovve'er  exalteji  or  deprcst, 

Be  ever  mine  the  feeling  breast. 

From  me  remove  the  stagnant  mind 

OJ-  languid  indolence,  reclin'd  ; 

Tlu-  ,5011!  that  one  long  sabbath  keeps, 

And  through  the  sun's  whole  circle  sleeps  ; 

Dull  peace,  that  dwells  in  foP-'s  eye, 

And  self-attending  vanity, 

Alike  the  foolish  and  the  vain 

Are  strangers  to  the  sense  humane. 

O  for  that  sympathetic  glow 


108  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

Which  taught  th    hnly  tear  to  flovy, 

When  the  prophetic  eye  survey 'd 

Sion  in  future  ashes  laid  ; 

Or,  i  ais'd  to  Heav'n  Hhpior'd  the  bread 

That  thousands  in  th»-  desert  fed  ! 

O;,  when  the  heart  o'er  friendship's  grave 

Bigh'd — and  forgot  its  pow'r  to  save 

0  for  that  sympathetic  glow, 
Which  taught  the  holy  tear  to  flow  ! 
It  comes  :  it  fills  mv  laboring  breast, 

1  feel  my  beating  heart  opprest. 
Oh  !  hear  thai  lonely  widow's  wail ! 
See  her  dim  eye  ;  her  aspect  pale  ! 
To  Heav'n  she  turns  in  deep  despair ; 
Her  infants  wonder  at  her  prayV, 

And,  mingling  tears,  they  know  not  why. 

Lilt  up  their  little  hands  and  cry. 

O  Lord  !  thi-ir  moving  sorrows  see  ! 

Support  them,  sweet  Humanity  !  ^ 

Life,  filPd  with  griefs  distressful  train, 

F<-r  ever  asks    he  tear  humane. 

Behold  in  yon  unconscious  grove 

The  victims  of  ill-fated  1cm-  ! 

Heard  you  that  agonizing  throe  ? 

Sure  this  is  not  romantic  wo  !    > 

The  golden  day  of  joy  is  o'er 

And  now  they  part — to  meet  no  more. 

Assist  them,  hearts  from  anguish  free  ! 

Assist  them,  sweet  Humanity  \ 

Parent  of  virtue,  if  thine  ear 

Attend  not  now  to  sorrow's  cry  ; 
If  now  the  pity-streaming  tear 

Should  haply  on  thy  cheek  be  dry, 
Indulge  m)  votive  strain,  O  sweet  Humanity ! 

LAMGHORNE. 

SECTION  ii. — A  night-piece  on  dec. 

BY  the  blue  taper's  trembling  light, 
No  more  1  waste  the  wakeful  night, 
Int*  nt  with  endless  view  to  pore 
The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o'er  : 
Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray, 


Pathetic  Pieces*  199 

Or  point  at  bc-st  the  longest  way. 
I'li  seek  a  readi  :V  p-.ith,  and  go 
Where  wisdom's  surely  taught  below. 

How  deep  yon  azure  dies  the,  sky  ! 
Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumbered  lie, 
While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 
The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide. 
The  slumb'ring  breeze  forgets  to  breathe> 
The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath, 
Where  once  again  the  spangled  show 
Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 
The  grounds  which  on  the  right  aspire, 
In  dimness  from  the  view  retire  : 
The  left  presents  a  place  of  graves, 
Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves. 
That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 
Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night ; 
There  pass  with  melancholy  state, 
By  all  trie  solemn  heaps  of  fate, 
And  think,  as  softly -sad  you  tread 
Above  the  venerable  dead, 
"  Time  was,  like  thee,  they  life  possest, 
And  time  shall  be,  that  thou  shah  rest." 

Those  graves  with  bending  osier  bound. 
That  nameless  heave  the  crumbled  ground, 
Quick  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose 
Where  toil  and  poverty  repose. 
The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a  name, 
The  chisel's  slender  help  to  fame  ; 
(Which,  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay, 
Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away ;) 
A  middle  race  of  mortals  own, 
Men,  half  ambitious,  all  unknown. 
The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high, 
Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie, 
Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptured  stones, 
Arms,  angels,  epitaphs,  and  bones, 
These,  (all  the  poor  remains  of  state) 
Adorn  the  rich  or  praise  the  great  ; 
Who  while  on  earth  in  fame  they  live, 
Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 
17 


>  Sequel  to  the 

Ha  !  while  I  gaze,  pale  Cynthia  l.i 

The  bursting  eai  t| 

All  slow  and  wan,  and  -wr^pp'd  with  shrouds. 

They  rise  in  visionary  cro\\i 

And  all  with  M.in  r  ac.  ent  cry, 

"Think,  Mort.il,  \.  h.«t  it  is  to  die. 

Now  iroiu  yon  black  and  fun' 
That  h;u. 

Metninka  1  in  ; 

(Y  ..!in, 

Yt   toiling  cl< 

OVr  tin   long  Inke  ,.nd  mi<.,M'.>Jit  ground;} 
It  sends  a  peal  of  \v 
Thus  speaking  fr  acs. 

u  When  iru  n  my 
Hou  great  a  kmg  ol  I  ! 

The)   view  n  :gs  : 

Tiny  make,  js. 

Fools  !  it  von  ars, 

No  more  m\ 
D  ath's  but  a  patli  tli 

'  :     . 

A  port  of  cal. 
From  th 

"  Whv 
Dee}^ 

Loose  scarts  :  L  ds, 

I,  «ng  palls,  di       n  t  ds, 

And  pi i.'  tread, 

Nod  o'er  the  scutcheons  of  the  dead  ?" 

u  X'>r  can  the  partrd  body  know, 
Nor  wants  the  s:>ui,  these  forms  of  wo  ; 
As  men  who  long  in  prison  clwdl, 
With  lamps  that  glimmer  round  the  cell, 
Whene'er  their  saffVing  years  are  run, 
Spring  ibrth  to  greet  the  glitt'ring  s-.m  ; 
Such  jov,  tho'  far  transcending  sense, 
Have  pious  souls  at  parting  hence, 
On  earth,  and  in  the  body  plac'd, 
A  few  and  evil  years  they  waste  ; 
But  when  their  chains  are  cast  aside, 
See  the  glad  scene  unfolding  wide, 


Pathetic  Pieces.  201 

Clap  the  glad  wing,  and  tow'r,  away, 

And  mingle  with  the  blaze  of  day."— — PARNELL. 

SECTION  in. — In  every  condition  of  life,  praise  is  due  to 
the  Creator. 

PRAISE  to  God,  immortal  praise, 

For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days  ; 

Bounteous  source  of  ev'ry  joy, 

Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  tin  ploy  : 

For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 

For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 

F'-r  the  vine's  exalted  juice, 

For  the  gen'rous  olive's  use. 

Flocks -thai  whiten  all  the  plain  ; 

Yellow  sheaves  of  ripen'd  grain  ; 

Clouds  that  drop  their  fat'ning  dews  ; 

Suns  that  temp'rate  warmth  diffuse  ; 

All  that  spring,  with  bounteous  hand. 

Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land  j 

All  that  lib'ral  autumn  pours, 

From  her  rich  overflowing  stores  : 

These  to  thee,  my  God,  we  owe, 

Source  from  whence  all  blesbings  flow  ; 

And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 

Grateful  vows,  and  solemn  praise. 

Yet,  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 

From  its  stem  the  rip'ning  ear  ; 

Should  the  fig-tree's  blasted  shoot  ^ 

Drop  her  green,  untimely  fruit  ; 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 

Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store  ; 

Though  the  sick'ning  flocks  should  fall, 

And  the  herds  desert  the  stall  ; 

Should  thine  alter'cl  hand  r,  strain 

The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ; 

Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 

And  the  rising  year  destroy  ; 

Y^t,  to  thee  my  soul  shall  raise 

Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise  ; 

And,  when  ev'ry  blessing's  flown, 

Love  the'e— for  thyself  alone.— -BARB AULD, 


'i  Reader. 


SECTION  iv. — Folly  of  human  fwfsuil 

tb  ,.t  hnivl  divin  •,  v,  ,itly  laid 

My  heart  at  rest  he  (i  » 

The  ^g'rous  seas, 

"With  ]/:  ,.t  our  peril. 

Hi  >  shore, 
I  hear  the  tumult  of 

As  that  ms  ; 

A»d  medita:  ut  still  ; 

Puisne  n  ah. 

Hi  u, 

.-laff, 
r  am  bill 
I  see  the  ci relic;  i.-n 

.juls  of  ri 

for  rapim-  ;  as  ilu-  lox,  tin-  wiKs  ; 
Till  dt-a'.h,  thin  mighty  hunter,  earths  them  all. 

\\"hy  all  this  toil  ior  triumphs  of  an  hour  ? 
Whnt,  tl;  .    ..or  soar  in  lame, 

/s  highest  station  ends  in,  "  here  he  Ii. 
And  u  dust  to  di.st"  concludes  her  noblest  song. 
If  this  song  1  \   shall  know 

One,  tho1  in  Britain  born,  with  courtiers  bred, 
Who  thought  e'en  gold  might  come  a  day  too  late  -, 
Nor  on  his  subtle  death- bed  planu'd  his  scheme 
For  future  vacancies  in  church,  or  state  ; 
Some  avocation  deeming  it — to  die  ; 
Unbit  by  rage  canine  ol  dying  rich  ; 
Guilt's  blunder !  and  the  loudest  laugh  of  hell. 
O  my  coevals  !  remnant  of  yourselves  ! 
Poor  human  ruins,  tottering  o'er  the  grave  I 
Shall  we,  shall  aged  men,  like  aged  trees, 
Strike  deeper  their  vile  root,  and  closer  cling, 
Still  more  enamour'd  of  this  wretched  soil  ? 
Shall  ov  pale,  wither'd  hands  be  still  strctch'd  out, 
Trembling,  at  once,  with  eagerness  and  age  ? 
With  av'rice,  and  convulsions  grasping  hard  ? 
Giasping  at  air  !  for  what  has  earth  beside  ? 
M  ;n  wants  but  little  ;  nor  that  little  long  : 
How  soon  must  he  resign  his  very  dust, 
Which  frugal  nature  lent  him  for  an  hour  !> 


Pathetic  Pieces. 

Years  unexperienc'd  rush  on  numerous  ills  ; 
And  soon  u,  man,  expert  from  time,  hits  found 
Thr  key  of  life,  it  opes  the  gates  of  death. 

When  in  this  vale  of  years  I  backward  look, 
And  miss  such  numbers,  numbers  too  of  such, 
Firmer  in  health,  and  greener  in  their  age, 
And  stricter  on  their  guard,  and  filter  far 
To  play  life's  subtle  game,  I  scarce  believe 
I  still  survive  :  and  am  I  fond  of  life, 
Who  scarce  can  think  it  possible  I  live  ? 
Alive  by  miracle  !  if  still  alive, 
Who  long  have  bury'd  what  gives  life  to  live? 
Firmness  of  nerve,  and  energy  of  thought. 
Life's  lee  is  not  more  shallow,  than  impure, 
And  vapid  ;  sense  and  reason  show  the  door, 
Call  for  my  bier,  and  point  me  to  the  dust. 

0  thou  great  Arbiter  of  life  and  death  ! 
N  mire's  immortal,  immaterial  sun  ! 
Whose  all-prolific  beam  late  call'd  me  forth 
From  darkness,  teeming    larkness,  where  I  lay 
The  worm's  inferior,  and,  in  rank,  beneath 
The  dust  J  tread  on,  high  to  bear  my  brow, 
To  drink  the  spirit  of  the  golden  day, 

And  triumph  in  existence  ;  and  could  *st  know 
No  motive,  but  my  bliss  ;  with  Abraham's  joy, 
Thy  call  I  follow  to  the  land  unknown  ; 

1  trust  in  thee,  and  know  in  whom  I  trust : 
Or  lite,  or-  death,  is  equal  ;  neither  weighs  ; 
All  weight  in  this — O  let  me  live  to  thee  I      •" 

SECTION  v. — An  address  to  the  Deny. 
GOD  of  my  life,  and  Author  of  my  days  ! 
Permit  my  feeble  voice  to  lisp  thy  praise  ; 
And  trembling  take  upon  a  mortal  tongue 
That  hallow'd  name  to  harps  of  seraphs  sung  : 
Yet  here  the  brightest  seraphs  could  no  more 
Thm  hide  their  faces,  tremble,  and  adore. 
"WWms.  angels,  men,  in  every  different  sphere, 
Are  equal  all,  for  all  are  nothing  here. 
All  nature  faints  beneath  the  mighty  name, 
Which  nature's  works,  thro'  ail  her  parts  proclaim. 

*17 


204  Sequel* to  the  English  Reader. 

I  feel  that  name  my  inmost  thoughts  control, 
And  breathe  an  awful  stillness  through  my  soul : 
As  l>y  a  charm,  the  waves  of  grief  subside  ; 
Impetuous  passion  stops  her  headlong  tide. 
At  thy  felt  presence  all  emotions  cease, 
And  my  hush'd  spirit  finds  a  sudden  peace  ; 
Till  ev'ry  worldly  thought  within  me  dks, 
And  earth's  gay  pageants  vanish  from  my  eves  : 
Till  all  my  sense  is  Just  in  infinite, 
And  one  vast  object  fills  my  aching  sight. 

But  soon,  alas  !  this  holy  calm  is  broke  ; 
Mv  soul  submits  to  wear  her  wonted  yoke  ; 
With  shackled  pinions  strives  to  soar  in  vain, 
And  mingk-s  with  the  dross  of  earth  again. 
But  he,  our  gracious  Master,  kind  as  just, 
Knowing  our  frame,  remembers  man  is  dust. 
His  spirit,  ever  brooding  o'er  our  mind, 
Sees  the  first  wish  to  better  hopes  inclin'd  ; 
Marks  the  young  dawn  of  ev'ry  virtuous  aim, 
And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame. 
His  ears  are  open  to  the  softest  t 
His  grace  descends  to  meet  the  lifted  eye  ; 
lie  reads  the  Lmguage  of  a  silent  tear, 
And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere. 
Such  are  the  vows,  the  sacrifice  I  give  ; 
Accept  the  vow,  and  bid  the  suppliant  live  : 
From  each  terrestrial  bondage  set  me  free  ; 
Still  ev'ry  wish  that  centres  not  in  thee  ; 
Bid  my  fond  hopes,  my  v.  in  disquiets  cease, 
And  point  my  path  to  everlasting  peace. 

If  the  soft  hand  of  winning  pleasure  leads 
B\   living  waters,  and  thro'  flow'ry  meads, 
When  all  is  smiling,  tranquil,  and  serene, 
And  vernal  brainy  paints  the  flatt'ring  scene, 
Oh  !  teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare, 
And  whisper  to  my  sliding  heart — Beware  ! 
Will  caution  let  me  hear  the  Syren's  voice, 
And  doubtful,  with  a  trembling  heart,  rejoice. 
If  triendhss,  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 
Where  briars  wound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way, 
Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see, 
And  with  strong  confidence  lay  hold  on  thee  ; 


Pathetic  Pieces. 

With- equal  eye  my  various  lot  receive, 
KesignM  u)  die,  or  resolute  to  liv 
PreparM  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod, 
While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 

I  read  his  awlul  name  emblazon'd  high 
With  golden  letters  on  th'  illumined  sky  ; 
Nor  U  ss  the  mystic  characters  i  see, 
Wrought  in  each  flowV,  inscribM  on  ev'ry  tree  r 
In  evVy  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze, 
I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees. 
With  thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk, 
With  thee  in  busy  crowded  cities  talk  ; 
In  ev'ry  creature  own  thy  forming  powV ; 
In  each  event  thy  providence  adore  : 
Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul, 
Thv  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fear  control. 
Thus  shall  I  rest  unmov'd  by  all  alarms, 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  thine  arms,  ; 
From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  thee. 
Then  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh, 
And  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye  ; 
When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
I  st  mcl,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state  j 
T    .  h  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene, 
With  decent  triumph,  and  a  look  serene  ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
And,  having  liv'd  to  thee,  in  thee  to  die. BARBAULD* 

SECTION  vi — A  monody  on  the  death  of  lady  Ly  tie  it  on. 

AT  length  escap'cl  from  ev'iy  human  ey€, 

From  evVy  duty,  ev'ry  care, 

That  in  my  mournful  thoughts  might  claim  a  share, 

Or  iorce  my  tears  their  flowing  stream  t .>  dry  ; 

Beneath  the  gloom  of  this  embow'ring  shade, 

This  lone  retreat,  for  tendtr  sorrow  made, 

I  now  may  give  my  burden V  ho  srt  relief, 

And  pour  forth  all  my  stores  of  grief ; 

Of  griff  surpassing  evVy  othi  r  v\  o. 

Far  as  the  purest  bliss,  the  happiest  love 

Can  on  th'  ennobled  mind  btstovv, 

Exceeds  the  vulgar  joys  that  move  ?' 


Sequel  to  the  EiigHsli  Reader. 


Our  pfross  desires,  in 

mg  rills, 

Y       :  .l([s, 

u  ith  prrpi  lual  green, 
Oft  have  you  mv  Lucy  seen! 
But  never  shall  \  •  I  i  In  r  more  : 

N-ir  will    hi-  now,  \\  ith  i  .;!it, 

An  Tm'd,your  rural  xplore. 

ClosM  are  those  bea-  j  night, 

Those  beauteous  eves  \vi  ,hine 

Reason's  pu:  divine. 

In  vain  I  look  around, 

well-  known  ground, 
iNIy  F.ury^  -teps  to  d 

Where  oit  M  )  \valk  ; 

re  oft  ii» 

•\vn  the  sky  ; 
fountain 
N' 

Along  the  v;  lound  ; 

In  a  ..pie  bound, 

No  more  my  mournful  i 
Can  -uight  '  py, 

But  the  sad  sacn-d  ea?-th  ;-  .   clear  rt  lies  lie. 

O  shades  of  Hagley,  where  is  now  your  boast  ? 

Your  bright  inhabit  tnt  is  lost. 
Yon  she  preferred  to  all  the  gay  resorts, 
W-t-re  i.  nity  might  u  ish  to  shine, 

T!i<-  [  omp  of  cities,  and  the  pride  of  courts. 
Her  mo.Vst  beauti'-s  shurta'd  the  public  eye  : 
To  vour  seque-ctr<-?J  dales 
And  fiower  embroider'd  vales, 
From  nn  admiring  world  she  chose  to  fly  '• 
\Vifh  Nat-ire  tlvrr  retired,  and  Nature's  God, 

The  silent  paths  of  wisdom  trod, 
And  hanish'd  every  passion  irorn  hrr  breast; 

But  those,  the  gentlest  and  the  best, 
Wives'    holy  flames,  with  energy  divine, 
The  vimior.  id  improve, 

The  copjup^d  ;md  the  maternal  love. 

1  wno,  -'.L   the  littU    'hyi'ul  fawns, 
Were  wont  to^rip  along  these  verdant  lawns, 


Pathetic  Pieces.  207 

Bv  your  delighted  mother's  side, 
Who  now  vour  infant  steps  ^h.dl  guide? 
Ah  !  where,  is  now  the  hand,  who*  e  ten  i  r  care 
TV)  ev'rv  virtue  would  have  form'd  your  youth, 
And  strew M  with  flow'rs  the  thorny  ways  of  truth  ? 
O  loss  hevond  repair  ! 
O  wr<  tch'.-d  <:ith<  r !  left  alone, 
To  weep  th.-ir  dire  misfortune^  and  thv  own  ! 
How  sh .\\\  thv  .vcik"  i  op^reRs'd  with 

And  drooping  o'e^$jj> ;L;i  v's  ejrave, 
Perform  the  duties||?  we, 

N'iw  she,  .Js8HRv>ne, 

From  i  1  ^MjSBf^  thrir  helpless  age  to  "save  ? 

Oh!  ho\-  .-•fagSPFiiii  ••  of  !ii-r  niinrl  and  face 
W  >s  hrL^pPn  <!  ?')V  so'ne  sweet  peculiar  grace  ! 

^ !  nt  iij  P:vV^  look, 

Thro'-^rr  exw .-^ ''Vf  eve?,  h-'r  soul  distinctl\T  spoke  ! 
How  did  h--r  m"-nne>-s,  h\-  the  world  refin'd, 
Leave  all  the  taint  nf  .modish  vice  behind, 
And  make  e;>ch  ch  «r  n  of  po^ish'd  courts  agree 
With  candid  truth's  simplicity, 
And  uncof runted  innocence  ! 
To  cfrr-at.  to  more  th^n  manlv  sense, 
She  join'd  the  sofVning  influence 
Of  more  than  female  tenderness. 
How,  in  the  thoughtless  ^avs  of  wealth  indjoy, 
Which  oft  the  care  of  others'  good  destroy, 
Her  kindly- melting  heart, 
To  everv  want,  and  every  wo, 
To  guilt  itself  when  in  distress, 
The  balm  of  pitv  would  impart, 
And  all  relief  that  bounty  c  >uld  bestow! 
E'en  for  the  kid  or  lamb,  that  pourM  its  life 
Beneath  the  bloody  knife*, 
Her  gentle  tears  would  fall; 
Tears,  from  sweet  virtue's  source,  benevolent  to  all. 

Not  only  good  and  kind, 
But  strong  -»nd  elevated  was  her  mind  : 
A  spirit  that,  with  noble  pride, 
Could  look  superior  down 
On  fortune's  smile  or  fro«-n  ; 
That  could,  without  regret  or  pain, 


the  English  Header. 

To  virtue's  lowest  duty  sacrifice 
Or  intt  n  st  or  amh'n  hcst  prize  ; 

Thar,  iujur'd  or  offended,  never  tried 
Its    li'/nity  by  vengeance  to  maintain, 
Bur  hv  magna.iimous  disdain. 
A  \\  \f  that,  L  mperatc  ly  bright-, 
With  inoffensive  light, 
All  pie  ,ne  ;  nor  ever  passM 

Th    d<  (.    'U  b  >i:;uls  that  wisdom's  sober  hand, 
An  voknce's  mild  command, 

And  bashful  modest-  it  cast. 

A  prudence  •  ^  ing,  undvceiv'd, 

r  too  much  believ'd  ; 

That  scorn VI  UP  icion's  co\v;.rd  K-ar, 

And,  without  \veakncss,  knew  to  re. 

Such  Lucy  \  n  in  her  iairest  days, 

Amidst  tlv  acclaim  of  universal  praise. 

In  life's  and  glory's  freshest  bloom, 
Death  came  rt  morsrlfss  on,  and  sunk  her  to  the  tomb* 
So,  when-  the  silent  streams  of  Liris  glide, 
In  the  soft  bosom  of  Campama'b  vale, 
When  no\v  the  uint'ry  tempests  all  are  fled, 

1  summer  br<  r  g-  ntle  gale, 

The  verdant  orange  lifts  its  beauteous  head; 
From  evVy  branch  the  balmy  flow'rets  rise, 
On  ev'ry  U)iigh  the  golden  fruits  are  seen  ; 
With* odours  sweet  it  fills  the  smiling  ski 
The  wood-nymphs  tend  it,  and  th*  Id aii an  queen  : 
But,  in  the  mid^t  of  all  its  blooming  pride, 
A  sudden  Mast  from  Apenninus  blows, 

Cold  with  perpetual  snows  ; 

The  tender-b!i>;hted  plant  shrinks  up  its  leaves,  and  dies* 
O  best  of  women  1  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  when,  in  blooming  life, 
My  lips  firsr  call'd  thee  wife  j 
H        can  my  soul  endure  the  loss  of  thee  ? 
Ho  v,  in  the  world,  to  me  a  desert  grown, 

Abandoned  and  alone, 
Without  my  sweet  companion  can  I  live  ? 

Without  thy  lovely  smile, 
The  dear  reward  of  evVy  virtuous  toil, 
Wh.it  pleasures  now  can  pail'd  ambition  give  : 


Pathetic^  Pieces.  209 

E'en  the  delightful  sense  of  well-earn'd  praise, 
UnsharM  by  ther,  no  more  my  lifeless  thoughts  could  raise. 

For  my  distracted  mind 

What  succour  can  I  find  ? 
On  whom  tor  consolation  shall  I  call  ? 

Support  me,  ev'ry  friend  ; 

Your  kind  assistance  lend, 
To  bear  the  weight  of  this  oppressive  wo. 

Alas  ?  each  friend  of  mine, 
My  dear  departed  love,  so  much  was  thine, 
That  none  has  any  comfort  to  bestow. 

My  books,  the  best  relief 

In  evVv  other  grief, 
Are  now  with  your  idea  sadden"1  d  all  : 
lUiich  f  w'rite  author  we  together  read 
My  tortur'd  mem'ry  wounds,  and  speaks  of  Lucy  dead. 
We  were  the  happiest  pair  of  human  kind  : 
The  rolling  year  its  various  course  perform'd, 

And  back  returned  again  ; 
Another,  and  another,  smiling  came, 
And  saw  our  happiness  unchanged  remain. 

Still  in  her  golden  chain 
Harmonious  concord  did  our  wishes  bind  : 
Our  studies,  pleasures,  taste,  the  same, 

O  fatal,  fatal  stroke  ! 
Thai  all  this  pleasing  fabric  love  had  raisM 

Of  rare  felicity, 

On  which  e'en  wanton  vice  with  envy  gaz'J, 
And  ev'ry  scheme  of  bliss  our  hearts  had  rorra'd, 
With  soothing  hope  for  many  a  future  day, 

In  one  sad  moment  broke  ! 
Yet,  O  my  soul  !  thy  rising  murmur  stay  ; 
Nor  dare  th'  all-wise  Disposer  to  arraign, 

Or  against  his  supreme  decree 

With  impious  grief  complain. 
That  all  thy  full-blown  joys  at  once  should  fade. 
Was  his  most  righteous  will—and  be  that  will  obey\I. 
Would  thy  fond  love  his  grace  to  her  control ; 
And,  in  these  low  abodes  of  sin  and  pain, 

Her  pure  exalted  soul, 
Unjustly,  for  thy  partial  good,  detain  ? 
No — rather  strive '-thy  'grov'Ilmg  mind  to  raise 


210  Sequel  to  the  English  Rc< 

Up  to  that  unclouded  blaze, 

That  heav'nh   radiance  of  eternal  light, 
\xhich  i-i- tin  on  d,  she  now  with  pity  si 

How  frail,  how  UISLCUIV,  liow  slight, 

Is  every  mortal  bliss  : 
Ev'n  love  its<  If,  if  rising  by  degrees 

Beyond  the  bounds  oi  this  imperfect  state., 
Whose  fleeting  joya  so  soon  must  end, 

It  c  to  its  sovereign  good  ascend. 

Rise  then,  my  soul,  with  hope  elate, 
And  seek  those  regions  of  serene  delight, 
\\';IO-K-  peaceful  p.ith,  and  ever-open  g^rr, 

No  feet  but  those  of  hardened  guilt  shall  miss  ; 

There  death  himself  thy  Lucy  shall  restore  ; 

'liiere  yield  up  all  his  pow'r,  ne'er  to  divide  you  more 

LORD  LYTTELTON. 


CHAPTER  V.— PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 
SECTION  i. — Hymn  to  contentment. 

LOVELY,  lasting  peace  of  mind! 
Sweet    'elight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heav'nly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  fa v 'rites  of  the  sky, 
With  more  of  happiness  below, 
Thau  victors  in  a  triumph  know  I 
Whither,  oh  whither  art  thuu  fli  cl, 
To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head  ? 
VThat  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  Scat  of  calm  and  ease  ? 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Oi  pomp  and  state  to  meet  thee  there 
Increasing  avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  inshrin'd  : 
The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
Through  rocks,  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 
To  gain  thy  love  ;  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wast  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 
The  silent  heart  which  grief  assails, 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  vales, 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 
And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 


Promiscuous  Pieces. 

Amusing  thought ;  but  learns  to  know- 
That  solitude's  the  nurse  of  wo, 
No  real  happiness  is  found 
In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground  : 
Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 
To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky, 
Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  nature  in  its  forms  below  : 
The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies  ; 
And  doubts  at  last  for  knowledge  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear  ; 
This  world  itself  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceiv'd 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  wav'd : 
It  seem'd  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confessed  the  presence  of  the  grace  ; 
When  thus  she  spoke  : — u  Go  rule  thy  will. 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still ; 
Know^  God,  and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow  ; 
Then  ev'ry  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest." 

Oh  !  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 
In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 
Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ, 
With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy, 
Rais'd  as  ancient  prophets  were, 
In  heav'nly  vision,  praise,  and  pray  V  ; 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none, 
Pleas'd  and  blest  with  God  alone  ; 
Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 
With  all  the  colours  of  delight  ; 
While  silver  waters  glide  along, 
To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song ; 
I'll  lift  my  voice  and  tune  my  string, 
And  thee,  Great  Source  of  Nature,  sing. 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way, 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day  \ 
18 


Sequel  to  the  English  A\-r: 

The  moon  that  shines  with  borrowed  light ; 

The  stars  that  gild  th  \  night ; 

Tht-  seas  that  roll  unnum; 

The  wood  th.it  spreads  its  shady  Kav, 

The  field  \vhosi  1  the  grain. 

The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain: 

A'l  of  these,  and  all  I  B< 

Should  he  sung,  and  sung  by  me  : 

They  speak  their  Maker  a  ran, 

But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

(Jo  search  among  your  idle  dreams. 
Your  busy  or  your  vain  exi'vmes  : 
And  find  a  life  of  equ.il  bl 
Or  own  the  next  brgun  in  IL  PARNEJ.L. 

SECTION  n. — An  .  in  a  country  church 

The  curlew  toils  th<    kn*  11  of  parting  d.  y, 

The  lowing  herd  wsr.ds  sim\  ly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  plough  id  plods  his  v,  «-ary  way, 

And  leaves  ih<    u.ijld  to  darkness  and  to  me. 
Now  fades  thi   glimmYii:  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  soh-mn  siillr.es-   lv/! 
Save  where  thu    betti  ^ht, 

And  d  o\\-,\   tinki'ngs  lull  the  distant  loids  ; 
Save  ihae,  from  \  \   m.iiult  d  tr 

The  moj/mg  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  suet  ;er  secret  bow'r 

Moli  st  her  an/u-nt  solitary  reign. 
Bent'a  h  th  \  ew-trees  shade, 

Where  henves  the  tin  moulci'ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  nanow  c.U  lor  t-\ 

The  ruue  to  ol"  tlv-  Ivuriet  sleep. 

The  !)reez^•  call  of  incenst  -»g  morn, 

The  sw-.,llow  twitt'ring  from  t\v  straw-built  she*  , 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  <  choing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 
For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  : 
Nor  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 
Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield  ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  21  < 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  teams  afield  ! 

How  bovv'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 
Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 
The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  weahh  e'er  gave. 
Await  alike,  th'  inevitable  hour  ; 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave  ; 
Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  menVry  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  thro'  the  long  drawn-aisle  and  fretted  vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 
Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flatt'ry  sooth  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 
Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 

Or  wake  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre. 
But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unrol ; 
Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 
Ful1  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear  : 
Full  many  a  flow'r  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 
Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 
Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  hind, 

And  read  their  hist'ry  hi  a  nation's  eyes, 
Their  lot  forbade;  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues ;  but  their  crimes  confined, 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 


14' 

The  sir*  ^cious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench -the  b  :ne, 

Or  heap  th  i  pride 

\V  it!  i  at  the  n  -TIT. 

1'ar  fj-n  . 

Their  sober  \. 
Along  the  cool  M 

Thty  kept  the  i !•  ;r  way. 

Yet  t 

Some  (rail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  i  uire  deck'd, 

Implores 

d  muse, 
Upply  : 

An  i  man]  a  hoi]  ws, 

to  i  lie  ; 
Fo.  >  dumb  forge  liuln 

This  pleasing,  anxious  b<  ing  e'er  i\  signed + 

ol    ilif   ehi     !!iii   d 

Nor  cast  one  loi  ..;f  ring  look  behind  i* 

On  some  fond  I 

Some  pious  drops  t;  e  1^41111  < 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  uf  nature  cries, 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonu 

>r  thee,  who,  mindful  ot  th'  unhonourM  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate  ; 
If,  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 
Haplv  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

u  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 
Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  Upland  lawn. 
There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech. 

That  wreatlus  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would  he  stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  bubbles  by. 
Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling,  <s  in  scorn, 

Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove; 
]Sow  drooping,  woful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazVl  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  \o\ 
One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  accustom'd  hill. 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  iav'ritc  tr>^ 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  215 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

•  Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he. 
The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  thro1  the  churchyard  path  we  saw  him  borne  : 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay, 

Grav'd  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn*" 

THE  EPITAPH. 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 

A  youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown  ; 
Fair  Science-  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 
Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  Mis'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear  ; 

He  gain'd  from  Heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 
No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God.  GRAY, 

SECTION  in. — Ode  to  Wisdom. 

THE  solitary  bird  of  night 

Thro'  the  pale  shades  now  wings  his  flight, 

And  quits  the  time-shook  tow'r. 
Where,  sheltered  from  the  blaze  of  day, 
In  philosophic  gloom  he  lay, 

Beneath  his  ivy  bow'r. 
With  joy  I  hear  the  solemn  sound, 
Which  midnight  echoes  waft  around, 

And  sighing  gales  repeat : 
Fav'rite  of  Pallas  !  I  attend, 
And,  faithful  to  thy  summons,  bend  > 

At  Wisdom's  awful  seat. 
She  loves  the  cool,  the  silent  eve, 
Where  "no  false  shows  of  life  deceive,        » 

Beneath  the  lunar  ray : 
Here  Folly  drops  each  vain  disguise, 
Nor  sports  her  gaily-colour'd  dyes, 

As  in  the  glare  of  day. 
O  Pallas  !  queen  of  ev'ry  art 
:'  That  glads  the  sense  or  mends  the  heart,'* 

Blest  source  of  purer  joys ; 
f  18 


Sequel  to  the 

In  ev'ry  form  of  beauty  bright, 
That  captivates  the  mental  sight 

With  pleasure  and  surprize  ; 
To  thy  unspotted  shrine  I  bow, 
Assist  thy  modest  suppliant's  vow, 

That  breathes  no  wild  desires  : 
But,  taught  by  thy  unerring  rules 
To  shun  the  fruitless  wish  of  fools, 

To  nobler  views  aspires. 

Fortune's  gem,  Ambition's  plume, 
Nor  C\>:  Aiding  bloom, 

Be  objects  oi  my  pra 
Let  av'rice,  vanity,  and  pride, 

i  se  glitt'ring  envied  toys  divide, 

The  dull  rewards  of  care. 
To  me  thy  better  gifts  impart, 
Kacli  moral  beaut)  oi  ihe  heart, 

I3y  stuiiious  thought  rein; 

wealth,  the  smiles  of  glad  conu 
For  pow'r,  its  ampK  extent, 

An  empire  o'er  my  mind. 
Wnen  Fortune  drops  her  gay  parade, 
AViu  ,i  Pleasure's  transient  r-/ses»  K. 

And  wither  in  ihe  the  tomb, 
TJi 'Chang' d  is  thy  immortal  prize, 
Thy  ever- verdant  laurels  rise 

In  undeca)  ing  bloom. 
By  thee  protected,  I  d 
The  coxcomb's  sneer,  the  stupid  lie 

Ot  ignorance  and  spite  ; 
Alike,  contemn  the  kaden  tool. 
And  all  the  pointed  ridicule 

Of  undiscerning  wit. 
Fr  m  envy,  hmry,  noise,  and  strife, 
'Toe  dull  impertinence  of  hie, 

In' thy  retreat  I  rest; 
Pursue  "thee  to  thy  peaceful  grov 
Whvre  Plato's  sacred  sprit  roves, 

In  :-ll  thy  graces  drtst. 
H^  hid  Ilyssus' tune  '.m 

eV  die   i 

Ot  perfect  fair,  and  good : 


,Prc'ri: iscuoHs  Pltu's. 

Attentive  Athens  caught  tin 
Am:  allMier  listening  sons  arour.J, 

In  awful  silence  stood. 
Reclairn'd,  her  wild  licentious 
Confessed  the  potent  voice  of  truth, 

And  felt  its  just  control : 
The  passions  ceas'd  the ir  loud  alarms, 
And  virtue's  soft  persuasive  chai 

O'er  all  their  senses  stole. 
Thy  breath  inspires  the  poet's  song, 
The  patriot's  free  unbiass'd  tongue, 

The  hero's  gen'rous  strife  : 
Thine  are  retirement's  silent  joys, 
And  nil  the  sweet  enclraring  ties 

Of  still,  domestic  life. 
No  more  to  iabieci  names  confin'cl^ 
To  thee,  supreme,  all-perfect  mind, 

My  thoughts  direct  their  flight: 
Wisdom's  thy  gift,  and  all  her  force 
From  dice  deriv'd,  unchanging  so .-. 

Of  intellectual  light ! 
O  -,end  her  sure,  her  sieiidy  ray 
TV  regulate  my  doubtful  way, 

Tiiro'  life's  perplexing  road  ; 
The  mists  of  error  to  control; 
And  thro1  its  gloom  direct  my  soul' 

To  happiness  and  good  I 
Beneath  her  clear  clioCv  rnmg  eye 
The  visional":  s  iiy 

Oi  Folly's  painted  show  : 
She  sees,  thro'  ev'ry  fair  disguise,. 
That  all  but  Virtue's  solid  joys 

Is  vanity  and  wo.  CARTER, 

SECTION  iv. —  The  Rale  and  the  Her  ml. 
A  YOUTH,  a  pupil  o!  tne  <own, 
PiiilosopUfcif  and  atheist  grown, 
Be-mghtrd  once  upon  the  road, 
Found  out  a  hermits  lone  abode, 
Whose  hospitality  in  need 
R<  iiev'ci  uie  traveler  and  his  steed; 
For  both  sufficiently  were  tir?a. 


218  Sequel  to  the  English 

Well  drench'd  i,n  ditches,  and  bemird. 
Hunger  the  first  attention  claims  ; 
Upon  the  coals  a  ra:siu-:r  flames. 
Dry  crusts,  and  liquor  something  stale* 
Were  added  to  make  up  a  meal; 
At  which  our  trav'ller  as  ho  sat, 
B     intervals  began  to  chat. — 
'Tis  odd,  quoth  he,  to  think  what  strains 
Oi  vcrn  some  folks' brains": 

What  makes  you  choose  this  wild  abode  ? 
You'll   .ay, 'tis  to  converse  with  God. 
Alas,  I  tear,  'tis  all  a  whim  ; 
You  neve  r  saw  or  spoke  with  him. 
They  talk  of  providence's  pow'r, 
And  say,  it  rules  us  evYy  hour  ; 
To  me  all  narurc  seems  confusion, 
And  such  w«-ak  fancies  mere  delusion. 
Say,  if  it  rul'd  and  governed  right, 
C'Hild  there  be  such  a  thing  as  night: 
Which,  when  the  sun  his  left  the  skies, 
Puts  all  things  in  a  deep  disguise  ? 
If  then  a  tia\Mcr  chance  to  stray 
Th<   least  step  from  the  public  way, 
Mr's  soon  in  tnclKss  mazes  lost, 
As  I  have  found  it  to  my  cost. 
Bt  hides,  the  gloom  which  nature  wears 
A'^-^ts  imaginary  fears, 
Of  ghosts  and  goblins  from  the  waves 
O,  oiUph'rous  lakes  and  yawning  graves; 
All  sprung  from  superstitious  seed, 
Like  other  maxims  of  the  creed. 
For  ivy  part,  I  reject  the  tales 
Which  faith  suggests  when  reason  fails ; 
And  reason  nothing  understands, 
Unwarranted  by  eyes  and  hands, 
^e  subtile  essences,  like  wind, 
Which  some  have  dreamt  of,  and  call  mind. 
It  neYr  admits;  nor  joins  the  lie 
Which  says  men  rot,  but  never  die. 
It  holds  all  future  things  in  doubt, 
And  therefore  wisely  leaves  trnm  out : 
Suggesting  what  is  worth  our  care. 


Promitfi 

To  take  things  present  as  they  are, 
Our  wisest  course  :  the  rest  is  folly, 
Tb-v  fruit  of  spleen  and  melancholy. — 

Sir,  quoth  the  Hermit,  I  agree 
That  Reason  still  our  guide  should  be  ; 
And  will  admit  her  as  the  test 
Of  what  is  true,  and  wrvjt  is  best; 
But  Reason  sure  would  blush  for  shame 
At  what  you  mention  in  her  name  ; 
Her  dictates  are  sublime  and  holy; 
"Impiety's  the  child  of  Follv. 

m,  with  nv*r\sur\l  st.'ps  und  slow, 
To  things  above  from  things  below 
Ascends,  and  guides  us  through  her  sphere 

\  caution,  vigilance,  and  rare. 
Faith  in  the  utmost  fi  onti-  r  stands,. 
And  Reason  puts  us  in  her  hands  ; 
But  not  till  her  commission  giv'n 
Is  found  authentic,  and  from  Heav'n. 
vFis  strange  that  man    a  reasoning  creature, 
Should  miss  a  God  in  viewing  nature  ; 
Whose  high  perfections  are  displav'd 
In  ev'ry  tiling  his  hands  have  made. 
Kv'n  when  we  think  their  traces  lost, 
When  found  again,  we  see  tru-m  most , 
The  night  itself,  which  you  would  b^ame 
As  something  wrong  in  nature's  frame? 
Is  but  a  curtain  to  invest 
Her  weary  children  when  at  rest : 
Like  thut  which  mothers-  draw  to  keep 
The  light  ofF  from  a  child  asleep. 
Beside,  the  fears  which  darkness  breeds 
(At  least  augments)  in  vulgar  beads, 
Are  far  from  useless,  when  *th<    mind 
Is  narrow,  and  to  earth  confinM  : 
They  make  the  worldling  think  with  p 
On  frauds,  and  oaths,  and  ill  got  gain  ; 
Force  from  the  ruffian's  hand  the  knife 
Just  rais'd  against  his  neighbours  life  ; 
And  in  defence  of  virtue's  cause, 
Assist  each  sanction  of  th^  laws. 
But  souls  serene,  where  wisdom  dwells, 


Sequel  to  the  English  Re 

And  superstitious  dread  expels, 

The  silent  maje  -lit 

E\<  it'-s  to  take  .1  nobler  flight; 

Wi  h  saints  and  a  explore 

Th    wonders  of  creating  pow'r  ; 

And  lifts  on  contemplation's  wings 

Above  th  of  mortal  th 

Walk  fonh,  and  trend  those  dewv  plains 

Where  nigni  in  awful  silence  reigns; 

Flic  sky's  serene,  the  air  is  still, 

The  woods  stand  listening  on  each  hill, 

To  c  itch  the  sounds  that  sink  and  swell, 

Wide  floating  from  the  ev'ning  hell, 

While  foxes  houl,  and  beetles  hum, 

Sounds  which  make  silence  still  more  dumb: 

And  try  if  folly,  rash  and  rude, 

D  >re  on  llic  sacred  hour  intrude. 

Then  turn  your  eyes  to  heav'ns  broad  fran 

Attempt  to  quote  those  lights  by  name, 

Which  shine  so  thick,  and  spread  so  far; 

Conceive  a  sun  in  cv'ry  star, 

Kound  which  unnumber'd  planets  roll, 

While  comets  shoot  athwart  the  whole  ; 

From  system  still  to  system  ranging, 

Their  various  benefits  exchanging, 

And  shaking  from  their  flaming  hair 

The  things  most  needed  evYv  1 

this  glorious  scene,  and  say, 
T:iat  night  discover's  less  than  day ; 
T  :  a  'tis  quite  useless,  and  a  sign 
That  chance  disposes,  not  des; 
Who'er  maintains  it,  I'll  pronounce 
Him  either  mad,  or  else  a  dunce ; 
For  re  son,  though  'tis  far  from  strong, 
\Vill  soon  find  out  that  nothing's  wrong, 
From  signs  and  evidences  clear 
Of  wise  contrivance  evYy  where. 

The  Hermit  ended,  and  the  youth 
B'-c-une  a  convert  to  the  truth ; 
At  least  he  yielded,  and  confess'd 
That  all  was  order'd  for  the  best.— —  WILKIE. 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  221 

SECTION  v. —  The  deserted  village. 
SWEET  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the. laboring  swain  : 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayM; 
Dear  lovely  bow'rs  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Scats  of  my  youth,  when  ev'ry  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene  ! 
How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  ev'ry  charm, 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
Th<-  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topp'd  the  neighE'ring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  youthful  converse  made  ! 
How  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play  ; 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd  ; 
And  many  a  gamble  froiick  d  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like  these. 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please  j 
These  round  thy  bow'rs  their  cheerful  influence  shed  ; 
These  were  thy  charms, — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 
Sweet  smiling  village  !  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 

:  ports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  ; 
Ami  1st  thy  bow'rs  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thv  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  hair  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain, 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  chokVl  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way  ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  fellow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest  : 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks,  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bow'rs  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mould'ring  wall ; 
And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 


Scq 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  U 

111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulate  s,  ;,nd  men  decay. 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  oV  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made  r 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy 'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 
A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
\ViicM  ev'ry  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store  j 
Just  gave  what  life  requirM,  but  gave  no  more  : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd  trade's  unfreling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain. 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatur'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumb  rous  pomp  repose  j 
And  ev'ry  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  ev'ry  pang  th.it  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  pjrac'ci  the  peaceful  scene, 
Liv'd  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrants  pow'r. 
Here,  as  1  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  ruin'd  grounds  ; 
And,  many  a  year  elaps'd,  return  to  view 

e  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew  : 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wand'rings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  ail  my  gri*  fs — and  God  has  giv'n  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bow'rs  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting,  by  repose  : 
I  si  ill  had  ho  ;*s,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skil! : 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 


PromtscnoU' 

And  tell  of  all  I  Mt,  and  all  I  saw  : 

And,  as  a  hare,  \vr-.\\  IK  id  horns  pursue, 

Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  ;u  first  lie  flew, 

I  still  had  no-n-s,  my  long  vexatigns  past, 

He  re  to  return — tncl  die  at  home  at  List. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  care,  that  never  must  he  mine  1 
How  blest  is  he,  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dang'rous  deep  ; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heav'n  commences  ere  the  world  be  past ! 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  v-hen  oft,  at  ev'ning's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 
There  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below ; 
The  swain,  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayM  the  whisp'ring  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh,  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  i 
These  ail  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled : 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring; 
She,  wretched  matron  !  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 

19 


To  pick  her  wint'ry  i  >rn, 

To  seek  her  nigh  '  ;»  till  morn  ; 

She  only  left  ot  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  t;t  t  re  ]>lain  ! 

Near  yonder  copse,  \  ice  the  garden  smilM. 

And  still  where  man  ,n  flow'r  iid, 

There,  where  a  iV'\v  turn  shrubs  tir 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was,  to  all  the  couiitiy  <_i 
And  passing  rich,  with  forty  pounds  a  year: 
R-  mo?e  from  to-vsns  he  run  his  godh   race, 
Nor  e'er  h:r  !  to  change,  his  phi 

Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  Y, 

By  doctiv 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  han.'d  to  pri. 

ire  hent  to  ra: 

His  house  \\  ^  knc^-.n  i-.>  i  train  ; 

He  chid  rh'.-ir  wanderings,  hiu  t  their  pain. 

The  long-remenatw 

Who  ast  ; 

The  ruin'd  spen  ;d, 

Claimed  kindred  .us  allow'd  : 

Th     br^fk 
S,a  hy  his  (ir  ty  ; 

,  o'er  his  wouncls  jne, 

Shoulder'd  his  c!  '.von. 

PieasM  with  his  g 

And  quite  forgot  th;  ir  vices  in  tin  ir  \vo  ; 
Careless  their  mei  iv  f  mils  to  scan, 

His  pitv  began, 

Thus  to  relic'  r<  tchcd  \vras  his  pricle, 

And  e'en  hi  -  ItanM  to  virtue's  side  : 

But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  ev'iy  rail, 
He  watch'd  arid  wept,  he  p-  1  felt  for  all : 

And,  as  a  hird  each  fond  endearment;  t: 
To  ttmpt  her  new-fledg'd  oii^|  ring  to  the  skies  ; 
He  tried  each  art,  reprovM  eacV>  dull  delay, 
AllurM  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed,  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  drsmay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.      At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 


Prom iscu o us  Pieces . 

Comfort  came  down  tho  uv.m'>lin£  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  falt.Ymg  accents  \Vhkper'd  pr- 

At  church,\Yith  .oe.,k  and  im.iiuaed  grace, 
His  K  vciierahK-  place  ; 

Tnuh  from  sway;' 

Ar.fi  •  i-o  pray. 

The  .-.ervice  past,  a.oun.i  the  |iit>.i)S  :r,an, 

V.  h  •  •-" ; 

K'«  n  vhil<wn  followed  \viv.h  tndcaring*>vile, 

And  pluckM  his  gown,  to  shatv  the  gorvj  -nan's  smile* 

His  reads'  smile,  a  pi  rent's  \v;-rmth  ex;;r<  ss'd  ; 

Thi  ir  wtii  art*  pkrasM  h'm,  and  tht  ir  circs  dlstr^ss'd* 

To  ih  m  his  heart,  hi*  love,  his  grit  is  wtrc  giv'n  ; 

But  all  his  S'Tiou  -:s  had  resi  »n  heav'n  : 

As  some  tall  cliff  ih.»t  lilts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 

Tho'  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom  furze  unprofitahly  gav, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion  skilfd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well,  they  laugh \j,  with  counterfeited  glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  h.   ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
ConveyM  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowfc'd. 
Yet  he  was  kind  j  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  : 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage  ; 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  th  it  he  could  guage. 
In  arguing  too  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For  e'en  tho'  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  wordS  of  learned  length,  and  thundYmg  suond, 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around  ; 
And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 


But  past  is  nil  hi-  fa    r  . 

Where  many  a  time  he  \  ot. 

W  .err  once  thu 
Lo      lies  thj: 
Wh 

imag 
Th 

. 

1'i^.  \ •;>.  :i(l  the  door  ; 

•!ebt  to  j... 

'1  he  picture  b  placed  lor  ornament  and  i 

Th--  t.velve  goo-.  ;;-oose  ; 

Th«-  hearth,'  ilM  the  day, 

-  Vs,  and  I 
While  brok. 
Ranged  o^f  tlj&A  n  in  a  row. 

Vain  trSfeitft^ggkfn  clour  !  could  not  all 
Retrieve  the  tottrrfpg  mansion  IVor.i  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the*  poor  man's  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
K<-!ax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear : 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round. 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 
These  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  : 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  s\vi- 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Wnenvied,  unmolested,  unconfin'd  ; 


Promiscuous  Picctx*         .  22 7 

But  the  iong  pomp,  the  midnight  masquei^de, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  airay'd, 

In  these,  ere  triaYrs  half  their  wish  ohtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 

And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy. 

The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy  ? 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 

The.  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 

'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand, 

Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 

Pro'ud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 

And  shouting  folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 

Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  mistrrV  wish,  abound, 

And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around ; 

Yet  count  our  gains :  this  wealth  is  but  a  name 

Th  it  leaves  our  useful  product  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss:  the  man  of  wt-alth  and  pride 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds; 

The-  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 

Has  robh'd  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth; 

^His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  s<jen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green. 

-  Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : 
While  thus  the  land  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 
As  some  fair  female,  unaclorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  evVy  borrow  d  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  (for  charms  are  frail,) 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
Shf  thm  shines  forth,  solicitous  toj>less, 
In  nil  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress: 
Thus  fares  thr  land,  by  luxary  betray 'd, 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayM; 
But,  verging  ?o  decline,  Us  splendours  rise, 
s  \istas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 

le,  scontgVj  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  Itads  his  humble  band  ; 

*  19 


228  Sequel  to  the  Engllxh  Rtc,- 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave  ! 

Where  then,  ah  where,  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
It,  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know, 
Extorted  from  his  fellow  creature's  wo. 
II'  re,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display. 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  , 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 
Sure  these  denote  one  iinivL-rs.il  joy  ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?   Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 

re  the  poor  houseless  shiv'ring  female  lies. 
She,  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
ILis  wept  at  talcs  of  innocence  distrest ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn : 
Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head  ; 
And  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  sho 
W  th  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 
Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
E'en  .now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 

Ah  no  !  to  dis  ant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 


'Promiscuous  Pieces.  229 

Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go^ 

Where  will  Altama  murmurs  to  their  wo. 

F  ir  cliff  "rent  there  from  all  that  charm  Yl  before, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 

Those  blazing-  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 

And  fiercely  stied  intolerable  day  ; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  : 

Those  pois'nons  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ;  ' 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 

WThere  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prev  ; 

And  savage  men,  more  murcl  rous  still  than  they  : 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

Mingling  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies, 

Alas  !  what  sorrows  giootrf  d  that  parting  d  ?y, 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away  ; 
When  the  poor  txiks,  ev'ry  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bow'rs,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wishxl  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  bevond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shuudVmg  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  retuin'd  to  weep  ! 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others  wo  : 
But  for  himself  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
Htj  only  wishM  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  hapless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  lather's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes. 
And  bless'd  the  cot  where  ev'ry  pleasure  rose  ; 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasp'd  them  close  in  sorrow  doubly  clear; 
WThilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief, 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 
O  luxury  !  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree, 

'1  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  ! 
do  thv  notions,  v/ith  i  jov, 

:se  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 


Scyu 


Kingdoms, by  thee  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 

Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  n   I  ,vn. 

AT  ev~r\  .  ge  and  large  they  grow, 

A  bloated  nv:ss  of  rank  u 

Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  :rt  unbound, 

])  )\vn,  down  they  sink.  HI  i  a  ruin  round  ! 

K'en  now  t  begun, 

And  half  the  bus'ness  ol"  (i  .,1  done; 

KVn  now,  methin'  hfere  I  stand, 

1  sec  the  rural  virtues  leave  thr  land. 
Down  whviv  von  .uitlionng  \n-ssel  spreads  the  sail, 

idlv  wailing  ll:\j)s  with  e.v'r\  ^ale, 
.  -nvard  they  u  aid, 

n  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 

And  kin-.l  •  there  : 

And  pi; 

:  il  love. 

An  1  thuu,  sweet  liest  maid, 

nvade  ; 

shame 

.or  honest  lame  ; 

:cd, 

M \  shamt  in  cruv  iditary  prid^  ! 

'J"         sonrce  oi  :  oi  wo, 

Thou  fou  ul'st  me  poor  at  firsthand  ke'-j)'st  me  so; 
T'tou  guide,  by  which  the  no.der  arts  ^xc   1, 
Thou  source  of  evVy  virtue,  tare  thee  \\\  11  ! 
Farewell!  and  oh !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torrio's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Wlv  ther  wht-re  equinoxial  ftrvodrs  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  ti 

;he  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime  ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  th>  pers   asive  strain, 
']     it  h  erring  man  to  spurn  the  ragv  or' gym; 
Tvaeh  him  that  states,  of  nat;  .;th  pussest, 

T)'.->u.£.h  very  poor,  mav  still  b(  VMV  blest; 
Th  >t  trade's  proud  empire  hast.-s  to  b 
As  ocean  sw^ps  ths   l.i'?our*d  rn;  :     av-. 
V  :    '     self-dt  p'.-nc!«  nt  pou'r  c-t:,  r;  •  .    tl   i*/, 
As  rocks  resist  the  biliaws  and  the  sky.— —  GOLDSMITH* 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  231 

tf  vn. — -The  Traveller:  or,  a  prospect  of  society. 
Insc: '•  \  Author's  Brother. 

REMOTE,  unfriended,  tfteUvncholy,  slow, 

Or  by  the  lazv  Scheld,  or  wandVmg  Po  ; 

Or  onward,  where  the  rue  ian  boor 

Against  the.-  houseless  st:  he  door; 

Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 

A  weary  waste,  expanding  to  ihe  skies  ; 

Whv-re'er  I  roam,  whatever  rt  ilms  to  see, 

My  he-trt  untruvdi'd,  (OM  lly  turns  J.o  thte  : 

Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  c^ast-K-ss  pain, 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a  leng'th'ning  rhuin. 

}\  • petual  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 

And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend  ! 

Bless'd  be  that  spot  where  cheerful  guests  retire. 

To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  ev'ning  fire: 

Bless'd  that  abode  where  want  and  pain  repair, 

And  ev'ry  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair  : 

Bless'd  be  those  feasts,  with  simple  plenty  crown'd5: 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 

Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale; 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 

And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good  ! 

But  me,  not  destin'd  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wancPring  spent,  and  care  ; 
I'm  pel  Pel,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
So;ae  fleeting  good  that  mocks  me  with  the  view; 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet  as  I  follow  flies  ; 
Mr:  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend  ; 
And  plac'd  on  high,  above  the  s form's  career, 
Look  downward  where  an  hundred  realms  appear  , 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains,  extending  wide,' 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store,  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 


I,   I 

An  1 
^\ 


I 

. 
\ 

. 
1 1 

ill  ; 

.11, 

.  til  ; 

A'! 

\v  1 
Ma; 

B  >ldlv  i  :i  ; 

An-i 

T  i      n  ;..      . 

\viue  ; 
I 

ii  the  good  L. 

S   c  \  U  ,  roam  ; 

His  first,  best  coi;  ;  >aie. 

Asi  ;  yet,  perhaps,  are, 

And  estimate  th  re, 

T'loa^li  patriot -i  fl.itter,  still  sh  ill  wiscfum  find 
A  i     qua!  portion  dealt  t,>  .ind; 

.'a  l*i\-at  good,  by  art  or  nature  giv'n, 
To  diifVent  nations,  makes  their  blessings  f 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  233 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 

Still  grants  her  Miss  at  labour's  earnest  call. 

With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 

On  Idra's  cliffs,  as  Arno's  sheivy  side ; 

And  tho'  the  rocky-crested  summits  frown, 

Fhese  rocks  by  custom  turn  to  beds  of  down. 

From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent, 

Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content ; 

Vet  these  each  other's  now'rs  so  strong  contest 

That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 

Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment  fails; 

And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 

Henct  ev'ry  state,  to  one  lov'd  blessing  prone, 

Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 

Each  to  the  fav'rite  happiness  attends 

And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends ; 

Till  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 

This  iav'ritt  good  Begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  traths  with  closer  eyes, 

And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies : 

Here  for  a  while,  my  proper  cares  resigned, 

Here  let  me  sit,  in  sorrow  for  mankind  ; 

Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 

Thar,  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  ev'rv  blast. 

Far  to  the  right,  where  Appennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer  Italy  extends ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride  ; 
While  oft  some  temple's  mould'ring  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 
Could  nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  bltst. 
Whatever  fruits  in  diff'rent  climes  are  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground; 

hatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year; 

hatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die  : 
These  here  disporting,  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil  ; 
While  sea-born  ga'es  their  gelid  wings  expand, 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 


234  .SV" 


But  small  the  I.!  ne  bestows; 

And  sensual        -  :*.ion  knows. 

In  florid  br;,  ts  and  fields  appear; 

Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  througn  ;»11  his  m.n,  ^n, 

Though  poor,  lux  /in  : 

Though  grav  i  untrue; 

And  e'en  in  pi-nance  |>',  -  anew. 

All  evils  here  cor.taminat,  nd, 

That  opulence  depait*  behind  ; 

For  wealth  was  tL  the  date, 

When  cumin  1  through  the  state: 

At  her  command  the  p.tKi. 

Again  the  long  -lall'n  column  sought  the  skies; 
The  canvas  glou'd  bes  ond  i\n  n.aure  warm; 
Th     pregnant  rjuarry  lecinM  with  human  form; 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  displayed  her  sail; 
"While  nought  remain'd  ol  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmann'd,  and  lords  without  a  s) 
And  late  the  nation  found,  with  fruitless  skill, 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 
Yet  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
J3v  arts,  the  splvndid  wrecks  of  former  pride  : 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array  'd, 
The  pasteboard  triumph,  and  the  cavalcade  ; 
Processions  fornVd  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  ev'ry  grove. 
By  sports  liktf  these  are  all  their  cares  begtlil'd  ; 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child. 
E;ich  nobler  aim  repress'd  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul  ; 
While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind  ; 
As  in  those  domes  where  Cesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defac'd  by  time,  and  tottYmg  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  ; 
And,  wond'ring  man  couid  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 


Promiscuous  Pieces, 

SECTION  vin. —  The  Traveller,  continued *\ 

MY  soul,  turn  from  them — turn  we  to  survey 

Where  toughest  climes  a  nooler  race  display  ; 

Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread, 

And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread ; 

No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 

But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword, 

No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 

But  winter  lingering  chilis  the  lap  of  May  ; 

No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 

But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest* 

Yet  still  e'en  here  content  can  spread  a  charm, 

Rr- dress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 

Tho'  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feast  tho?  smallj 

He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 

Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head, 

To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 

No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal. 

To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 

But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 

Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 

Cheerful  at  morn  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 

Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 

With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 

Or  drives  his  vent'rous  plough-share  to  the  steep ; 

Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow- tracks  mark  the  way, 

And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 

At  night  returning,  ev'ry  labour  sped, 

He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 

Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 

His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze; 

While  his  lov'd  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 

Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board : 

And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 

With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  ev'ry  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart; 
And  e'en  those  hills  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms : 

20 


236  ///.9/i  Pe< 

And  as  a  child,  whi< 
Clin 

S<>  i  ;ind  the  v 

But  bind  him  t<; 
Such  ar 

Then    \v  iM. 

Yet  let  th   m  or/! 
If  few  th. 

F  -.   i-vYy  want  th;it  stimulates  the  bn  . 
B  C'nin-s  a  Jiourcc  oi  p!i  st. 

nee  i'roin  sue 

. 

M  1)    t()    thfjll,    N 

T'    fill  the  languid  p.-.p.s:    with  \   ; 

icnvn  ih 

'i  y  nen  i  in*« 

Th 

IT     ;  K  i;ch\l  by  lannM  by  strong  desire  ; 

V    (it  for  r;i  r 

On 

T,  :  bui 

:')\V  J 

Their  m(>'  ut  lo\v  : 

For,  as  refiru-m-.-iU  stops,  • 

TJr.ulurVi,  u 

A\\(\  flart 

Fa):  -)-t. 

Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain'^  brtast 

May  sit  like  :  -jn  the  nest ; 

B-.it  .ill  the  gL  such  ,is 

T  -lo1  life's  more  -  \vaiks,  and  charm  the  way  ; 

.se,  far  ci  -ini'rous  pinions  lly, 

To  sport  and  il utter  in  a  kinder  h 
To  kinder  skies,  whc:  .-in-.-rs  reign, 

I  turn — and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay  sprightly  land  oi  mirth  and  SOCK; 
Pieas'd  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world,  can  please  ; 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murm'ring  Loire  ! 
Wh'.-re  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew. 
And,  freshen'd  from  the  wave,  the  zephyr  Hew  ; 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  337 

And  haply,  tho'  my  harsh  touch  faltVmg  still, 
But  mock'd  all  tune,  and  m.irr'd  the  dancer's  skill, 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondVous  pow'r, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  die  noon-tide  hour  ! 
Alike  all  ages  :  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  chilbrcn  ti  ro'  the  mirthful  nrize  $ 
And  th'j  gay  grandsire.  skUl'.i  in  gestir  lore^ 
Has  WskM  bmeath  the  burd<  n  oi  thivescore. 

So  gay  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display  5 
Tnus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 
Theirs  are  thos^  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear ; 
For  honour  forms  the  social  tamper  here, 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current  ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land. 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages,  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise  : 
They  please,  are  plcas'd,  they  give  to  get  esteem  ; 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they,  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  -, 
For  praise  too  dearly  lov'd  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought  ; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Lean's  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
.Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
-Here  vanity  assumes  her  p^rt  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robe  of  frieze  with  copper-lace  ; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year: 
The  mind  still  tur-»  ;  where  shifting  fashion  draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self- applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  HolLind  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand. 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land  ; 
Ahd  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow; 


;e7  to  tin 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  wat'rv  roar, 

While  1 1--  ( .ilc, 

Se-'s  an  h  him  smile  ; 

' 

1 

:  soil 

tailt 

In<' 

And  induct' 

.••pice  :;!!  th(  ^g&j 

XV  ith  .ill  tho 

Their  m 
Co-  vcr 
But, 

.•sell'  is  b:irtcrM  1 

:is  all  freedom  fli. 
n  buys : 

A  land  oi  !  a  den  o 

Here  wretcnes  seek  dishonour,  vcs  ; 

And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conlbrm, 
Dull  as  their  lak  i  the  storm, 

0  !  how  unlike  their  ires  of  old  ; 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold  : 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow  : 
How  much  unlik'  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 

Fir'd  at  the  sound,  my  Genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring; 
Wlu^re  hr.vns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  fam'd  Kydaspes  glide. 
-There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  s  ^.y, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  ev'ry  spray  ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combin'd  ; 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind ! 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great: 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

1  see  the  lords  of  human-kind  pass  by  j 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band  ; 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  nature's  har 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  239 


Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control: 


While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 

And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictur'd  here, 

Thine  are  those  charms,  that  dazzle  and  endear : 

Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy, 

Bat  foster'd  e'en  by  freedom  ills  annoy. 

That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 

Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie; 

The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone  ; 

All  claims  that  bind  and  swerten  life  unknown* 

Here,  by  the  bonds  <>f  nature  feebly  held, 

Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repejl'd ; 

Ferments  arise,  imprisoned  factions  roar, 

Repressed  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore ; 

Till,  over-wrought,  the  genVal  system  fet  Is 

Its  motion  stop,  or  phrenzy  fires  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.      As  nature's  ties  decay, 

As  duty,  love,  and  honour,  fail  to  sway, 

Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 

Stil?  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 

Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 

And  talents  sink,  and  merit  weeps  unknown;. 

Till  time  may  come,  when,  stripp'd  of  all  her  charms, 

The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 

Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 

"Where  kings  have  t  il'd,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 

One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 

And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonour'd  die. 

Yet  think  not  thus,  when  freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  gnat. 
Ye  pow'rs  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ! 
And  thou,  fair  freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel ; 
Thou  transitory  flowV,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fost'ring  sun, 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure : 
I  only  would  repress  them,  to  secure : 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  ev'ry  soil, 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  who  toll ; 


240  Sequel  to  the  English 

And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lay  proportionM  loads  on  each : 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion'd  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

0  then,  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast-approaching  danger  warms  : 
But  when  coaler  the  thro-; 
Contracting  regal  powV  to  stretch  their  own  ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious                ,ree 

To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free  ; 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  wl:  g£  nations  roam, 

PiUag'd  from  slaves,  to  purchase  slaves  at  horn 
Fear,  pity, justice,  indignation,  start, 
TV  ar  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart ; 
Till,  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 

1  fly  from  petty  tyrants,  to  the  throne. 
Ah,  brother!  how  disastro  at  hour, 
Whm  first  ambition  struck  at  iv^il  pow'r; 
And  thus,  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  .v                mind  with  double  for 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  13 1 -hum's  peopled  shore, 
Her  useful  so.               mg\l  for  useless  ore  ; 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 
Like  flaring  tapers  bright'nin^  as  they  waste  ; 
S^en  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain. 

Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train  ; 

And  over  fields,  where  scatter1  d  hamlets  rose., 

In  barren,  solitary  pomp  repose  ; 

Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 

The  smiling  long  frequented  village  fall? 

Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decayed, 

The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 

Forc'd  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy.train  ; 

To  traverse  cl'nrus  beyond  the  western"  main ; 

TVhere  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 

And  Niagara  stuns  with  thundYmg  sound? 

E'  n  now,  perh  »ps,  »s  tlv.re  some  pilgrim  strays 

Thro'  tanj  _:  thro*  daag'rous  ways ; 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  241 

Where  beasts  with  ma^>  divided  empire  claim, 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  munl'rous  aim  ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flics, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  wo, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine , 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathise  with  mine. 
Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind ! 
Why  have  I  stray'd  from  pleasure  and  repose., 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  evVy  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  * 
Still  to  ourselves  in  ev'rv  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find: 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy. 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy  ; 
The  lifted  ax,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel, 
To  men  remote  from  pow'r  but  rarely  known, 
ILeave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own. 

GOLDSMITH 

SECTION  ix. —  The  vanity  of  human  ^v^shes* 

LET  observation,  with  extensive  view, 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru  ; 
Remark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager  strife, 
And  watch  the  busy  scenes. of. crowded  life  ;. 
Then  say  how  hope  and  fear,  desire  and  hate? 
OVrspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of  fate? 
Where  wavYmg  man,  betray''.!  by  vent'rous  pride, 
To  tread  the  dreary  paths  without  a  guide, 
As  treachVous  phantoms  in  the  midst  delude, 
Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good. 
How  rarely  reason,  guides  the  stubborn  choice, 
Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  suppliant  voice  r 
How  nations  sink  by  darling  schemes  oppr  st, 
When  vengeance  listens  to  the  fool's  request. 


242  uel  to  the  English  Reader. 

Fate  wi-  h  trT  af.r;  rt, 

ift  ; 
With  latal  heat  impet  \vs, 

; 
Imp-  .t  stops  t:  breath, 

iih. 

,  scarce  <•'  '  ihc  bold 

F  ill  in  t 

W  :lr- wasting  p  st !  t  .M, 

An.!  'he  reco;  .nkind ! 

F'»-  g'H  ;  .Hian  dr\< 

For  hirtlin 

>j;»i.i\l  or,  ;or  tnitii  nor 

command, 

Anv!  i  hind, 

i he  rt-fu-  /d, 

tl  than  the  lord. 

!'  po\v?r, 
A iv  \-  ; 

s'Jir-id, 

Tho*  confist.  ad. 

The  ne 

•  id  heath-.  is  toil  away. 

Dot.-s  env\-  sv  ize  thee  ?  crush  th'  upbraiding  joy, 
Irci\  asc  his  rich,  roy. 

Nov.1  fears  in  din  .  i>ie  invad-/  ; 

nistlihg  brake  alarms,  -iiul  quivVing  shade: 
Nor  light  noi'  darkness,  brings  his  pain  r-,  l»ct, 
One  shows  th-  plunder,  and  on-/  hides  the  thief. 

Yet  still  on.   gc.nVal  cry  thr  skies  assails, 
And  gain  and  grandeur  load  the  tainud  gait  s  : 
Ft  \v  know  thuj  toiling  statesman's  fear  or  care, 
Th5  insidious  rival,  and  the  gaping  heir. 

Once  more,  Democritus,  arise  on  earth, 
W  th  cheerful  wisdom  and  instructive  mirth  \ 
See    motley  life  in  modern  trappings  drest, 
And  feed  with  v.iried  fools  th'  eternal  jest : 
Thou  who  couldst  l.-iugh  where  want  tnchain'd  caprice5 
Toil  crush'd  coucf-it,  and  man  was  of  a  piece ; 
"Where  wealth  unlovM  without  a  mourner  died  j 
And  scarce  a  sycophant  was  fed  by  pride  ; 


Promiscuous  Pieces. 

Where  ne'er  was  known  the  form  of  mock  debate, 
Or  seen  a  new  made  mayor's  unwi  Id    s.att  ; 
Where  change  of  favVitea  made  no  change  of  laws, 
And  senates  heard  before  theyjudg'd  a  cause: 
How  wouldst  thou  shake  at  Britain's  modish  tribe, 
Dart  the  quick  taunt,  and  edge  the  piercing  gibe ! 
Attentive,  truth  and  nature  to  descry, 
And  pierce  each  scene  with  philosophic  eye. 
To  thee  were  solemn  toys  or  empty  show, 
The  robes  of  pleasure   =  nd  the  veils  of  wo : 
.  Al:  aid  the  farce,  and  all  thy  mirth  maintain, 
Whose  joys  are  causeless,  or  whose' gneis  are  vain» 
S"ch  was  the  scorn  that  filled  the  K-ig-'-'s  mind, 
Renew'd  at  ev'ry  glance  on  human  kind  : 
How  just  that  scorn  ere  yet  thy  voice  declare, 

Search  r.v*rv  state,  and  canvass  ev'ry  pray'r. 

UnnumberM  su  >;>li;mts  crowd  preferments  gate, 

A'hirst  for  wealth,  and  burning  to  be  great; 

Delusive  fortune  hears  ,h:  in  tssant  call  ; 

They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate,  and  fall. 

On  ev'ry  stage  the  foes  of  peace  attend, 

Hate  dogs  their  flight,  and  insult  mocks  their  end. 

Love  ends  with  hope,  the  sinking  statesman's  door 

Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no  more  ; 

For  growing  narmes  the  weekly  scribbler  lies, 

To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies  ; 

From  ev'ry  room  descends  the  painted  face, 
Fh  it  hung  the  bright  palladium  of  the  place; 

And,  smok'd  in  kitchens,  or  in  auctions  sold. 

To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold ;. 

For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  ev  ry  line 

Heroic  worth,  benevolence  divine  : 

The  form  distorted  justifies  the  fall, 

And  detestation  rids  th'  indignant  wall. 
^  But  will  not  Britain  hear  the  last  appeal, 

Sign  her  foes'  doom,  or  guard  her  fav  rites'  ze  '  r 

1  ho'  freedom's  sons  no  more  remonstrance  rings, 

Degrading  nobles  and  controling  kings  ; 

Our  supple  tribes  repress  their  patriot  throats, 

And  ask  no  questions  but  the  price  of  votes; 

With  weekly  libels  and  septennial  ale, 

Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail. 


244  Se./itel  to  the  English  Reader. 

In  full  blown  dignity,  see  WoUey  stand, 
in  his  voice,  and  fortiiiv  in  his  hand  : 

To  him  the  church,  the  real-.n,  thc-ir  posvYs  consign, 

Through  him  thh    r  :vs  of  rt-g.il  bounty  shine  ; 

Turn'd  by  his  nod  the  ^  cream  oi  honour  flows, 

II is  smil'>  alone  s.-C'inty  bestows  ; 

Stdl  to  new  heig1*  ,tl  ss  wishes  tow'r; 

Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  pow'r  advances  powY  , 

Till  conquest  unresistcd  ceas'd  to  ])!<  ; 

!  rights  subuiitt«'d  It  ft  him  none*  to  st  i  v 

At  K-ngth  hi  is — the  tr  nn  of  state 

Mark  the  keen  glanc  ','ne  sign  lo  h, 

Where- t-'er  h  •  turns  he  uuxts  a  strang. 

His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followfrs  fly: 
drops  at  once  th?pri  !ul  state, 

Tht-  golden  canoi)'  "itVing  plate, 

The  n  gal  palace,  the  luxurious  bo 

The  liv'ried  army,  and  the  nu  nial  lord. 

Wii  "tes  opprest, 

ic  rest. 

Grief  aid  ';er'd  foils- stings, 

And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings. 

Sp<*ak  thou,  \vho-e  thougivs  at  lui  \ce  repine9 

Shall  Wolst  \  's  wealth  svith  Wolscy's  end  be  thine  ? 

Or  liv'st  thou  now,  with  safer  pridi-  content, 

The.  \vist-.st  jusrice  on  the  banks  of  Trent? 

For  \vhv  did  W- •  ir  t   e  steeps  of  fate, 

foundations  raise  tir  enormous  weight? 
•.)Ut  to  sink,  beneath  misfortune's  blow, 

With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  b-.-low  ? 

:  eat  Villi^rs  to  th'  assassin's  knife, 

And  fix'd  disuse  on  Hurley's  closing  lite  ? 

What  murd^i-'d   vVent;vorth,  and  what  exil'd  Hyde, 

B\-  kings  protected,  and  to  kings  ally'd  ? 

"What  but  their  wish  indulged  in  courts  to  shine, 

And  prnvV  too  great  to  kt-ep,or  to  resign? 
When  first  ti^e  college  rolls  receive  his  name, 

The  young  enthusiast  quits  his  ease  for  fame; 

Resistless  burns  the  fever  of  renown, 

rht  from  the  strong  contagion  of  the  gown: 

O'er  Bodiey's  dome  his  future  labours  spread, 

And  Bacon/s  mansion  trembles  o'er  his  head. 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  2 

Are  these  thv  views  ?  proceed,  illustrious  youth, 
A-id  virtue  guard  thee  to  the  throne  of  truth  ! 
Yet  should  thy  soul  indulge  the  gen'rous  heat, 
Till  captive  science  \  iclds  her  last  retreat ; 
Should  reason  gfeide  thee  with  her  brightest  ray, 
And  pour  on  misty  doubt  resistless  day  ; 
Should  no  false  kindness  lure  to  loose  delight, 
N  »r  praise  relax,  nor  difficulty  fright : 
Should  tempting  novelty  thy  cell  retrain, 
And  sloth  effuse  her  opiate  fumes  in  vain  ; 
Should  brainy  blunt  on  tops  her  fatal  dart, 
Nor  claim  the  triumph  of  a  letter'd  heart ; 
Should  no  disease  thy  torpid  veins  invade, 
Nor  melancholy's  phantoms  haunt  thy  shade  ; 
Y  i  hope  not  HIV  from  grief  or  danger  free,, 
Nor  think  the  doom  of  man  revers'd  for  thee  : 
Deign  on  the  passing  world  to  turn  thine  eyes* 
And  pause  awhile  from  learning,  to  be  wise  ; 
T  .ere  mark  what  ills  the  scholas's  life  assail, 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail. 
Set  nations  slowly  wise,  and  meanly  just. 
To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust. 
If  dreams  yet  flatter,  once  again  attend, 
He»r  Lydiat's  life,  and  Galileo's  end. 

Nor  deem,  when  learning  her  last  prize  bestows, 
The  glitt'ring  eminence  exempt  from  foes  ; 
Set,  when  the  vulgar  'scapes,  despis'd  or  aw'd, 
Rebellion's  vengeful  talons  seiz-    on  Laud. 
From  meaner  minds,  tho*  smaller  fines  content^ 
The  plunder'd  palace  or  stquester'd  rent ; 
Mark'cl  out  by  dangerous  part*  he  meets  the  shock, 
And  fatal  learning  leads  him  to  the  block  : 
Around  his  tomb  let  art  and  genius  weep, 
But  h  ar  his  death,  ye  blockheads,  hear  and  sleep. 

SECTION  x. —  The  vanity  of  human  wishes  continued, 

THE  festal  blazes,  the  triumphal  show, 
The  ravishM  standard,  and  the  captive  foe, 
The  senate's  thanks,  the  gazette's  pompous  tale, 
With  force  resistless  o'er  the  brave  prevail. 
Su>      ;>!ioes  the  rapid  Greek  o'er  Asia  whirled, 
For  such  the  steady  Roman  shook  the  world  -, 


246  Sequel  to  the  English  Reader. 

For  such  in  distant  hinds  the  Britons  shine, 

And  stain  with  blood  the  Danube  or  the  Rhine  : 

This  povvV  has  praise ,  that  virtue  scarce  can  warm, 

Till  fame  supplies  the  univers.il  charm. 

Yet  reason  frowns  on  war's  unequal  game. 

Where  wasted  nations  raise  a  single  name, 

And  mortgaged  states  their  grandsires  wreaths  regi 

From  age  to  age  in  everlasting  debt ; 

Wreaths  which  at  List  the  dear-bought  right  convey 

To  rust  on  medals,  or  on  stones  decay. 

On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride, 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide  ; 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire  ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Unconquer'd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field  ; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  pow'r  combine, 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign  ; 
Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in  vain 
4C  Think  nothing  gam'd,"  he  cues,  till  nought  remain, 
u  On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 
u  And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky.5' 
The  march  begins  in  military  st 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait ; 
Stern  famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
And  winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost ; 
He  comes,  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay  ;~— 
Hide,  blushing  glory'  hide  Pultowa's  day  ! 
The  vanquished  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands, 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands  : 
Condemn'd  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait, 
While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 
B'«t  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error  mei 
D:d  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound, 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground  ? 
His  fall  was  destin'd  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 
H<-  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 


!  mlscituiis  Pieces. 


All  times  their  r.c  :nes  of  pompous  woes  afford, 
'From  Persia's  tyrant,  to  Bavaria's  lord. 
In  gay  hostility,  and  barbVous  pride, 
With  half  mankind  embattled  at  his  side, 
Great  Xerx:  3  comes  to  seize  tho  certain  prey, 
And  starves  exhausted  regions  in  his  way  ; 
*  Attendant  fl.UtVy  counts  his  myriad*  o'er, 
Till  counted  myriads  sooth  his  pride  no  more  ; 
Fresh  praise  is  tri-jd  till  m  rln.-so  fires  his  mind, 
The  waves  he  lashes,  and  enchains  *he  win-!  : 
New  pow'rs  are  claimed,  new  pow'rs  are  still  bestowM 
Till  rude  resistance  lops  the  spreading  god  ; 
The  daring  Greeks  deride  the  martial  show, 
And  heap  their  vallies  with  the  gaudy  foe  ; 
Th*  insulted  sea  with  humbler  thoughts  he  gains, 
A  single  skiff  to  speed  his  flight  remains  : 
Th'  encumber'd  oar  scarce  leaves  the  dreaded  coast 
Through  purple  billows  and  a  floating^  host. 

The  bold  Bavarian,  in  a  luckless  hour, 
Tries  the  dread  summits  of  Cesarean  pow'r, 
With  unexpected  legions  bursts  away, 
And  sees  defenceless  realms  receive  his  sway  ; 
Short  sway  !  fair  Austria  spreads  her  mournful  chatms, 
The  queen,  the  beauty,  sets  the  world  in  arms  ; 
From  hill  to  hill  the  beacon's  rousing  blaze 
Spreads  wide  the  hope  of  plunder  and  of  praise  : 
The  fierce  Croatian,  and  the  wild  Hussar, 
With  all  the  sons  of  ravage  crow'd  the  war  ; 
The  baffled  prince,  in  honour's  flatt'ring  bloom 
Of  hasty  greatness,  finds  the  fatal  doom, 
His  foes  derision,  and  his  subjects  blame, 
And  steals  to  death  from  anguish  and  from  shame. 

Enlarge  my  life  with  multitude  of  days, 
In  health,  in  sickness,  thus  the  suppliant  prays  : 
Hides  from  himself  his  state,  and  shuns  to 
That  life  protracted  is  protracted  wo. 
Time  hovers  o'er,  impatient  to  destroy, 
And  shuts  up  all  the  passages  of  joy  : 
In  vain  their  gifts  the  bounteous  seasons 
The  fruit  autumnal,  and  the  vernal  fiow'r  — 
With  listless  eyes  the  dotard  views  lh»6tere, 


24B 

IK  x 

IV.vvv  pall  th. 

And  luxury  wit'. 

roach,  \ 

Liffusc  tiv.   uin<:lul  lenitr  :i  : 

wr.uki  tourh  ili' 

ndf 

I-* 
Bui  ei 

Pi    1    v 

' 
Pi  ?  i  U  x  the  i 

In  }--ruv.  -, 

mould  his  }• 
:  itiibri'ci  in:iladi- 

Jc  ; 

:l  hands, 
] 

Or  \  i^\%  s  h;: 

c  till  he 

Bin  •;:  virtues  ot  a  ten 

•  iipt  iVor.. 

An 

i  modest 

\V 

Vv"(H>:^  nighv 

The  getvral  1'uv* rite  as  the  g\  :  ;;d  : 

/age  there  is,  and  \vho  shall  \ 
Y  t  e'en  ou  this  ht-r  load  misfortui: 
To  press  th    \vt.\rv  n  nig  win. 

:  sorro'.v  rr.rs  as  the  day  rear 
A  sister  sickens,  o-   a  daughtri 
Kow  kindred  merit  fills  the  sank  birr, 
"No  v  lut-nued  friendship  claims  a  tv.rr, 
Year  chasts  year,  decay  pcrsues  decay, 


Promiscuous  Pit  - 

Still  drops  some  joy  from  whirring  lift'  away  : 
Nt-\v  forms  arise,  and  diiTrent  views  engage, 
Superfluous  lags  the  vetVan  on  the.  s ,a^,e  ; 
Til!  t.hf  last  release, 

An  Uicted  worth  retire  to  p<  ;,. 

re  whom  hours  like  these  awaic, 
d  in  the  gnlfs  of  fate. 

•i  Lvuhi's  monarch  should  the  search  descend, 
By  I  :ion'd.to  regard  his  end, 

Iii  11  \urprise, 

Fears  of  the  hrave, 'and  follies  of  the  wise  ! 
From  A!  nrlb' rough's  eyes  the  streams  of  dotage  flow, 
An-.t  Snift  >•  driv'ler  md  a  show. 

The  timing  mother,  anxious  for  her  race, 
Begs  for  each  birth  the  fortune  of  a  face  : 
Yet  Vane  could  tell  what  ills  from  beauty  spring  j 
And  Sedley  cursld  the  form  that  pleas'd  a  king. 
Ye  nymphs  of  rosy  lips  and  radiant  eyes, 
Whom  pleasure  keeps  too  busy  to  he  wise  ; 
Whom  joys  with  soft  varieties  invite, 
BY  day  the  frolic,  and  the  dance  by  night  : 
Who  frown  with  vanity,  who  smile  wuh  art. 
And  ask  the  latest  fashion  of  the  heart  ; 
What  care,  what  rules  your  heedless  charms  shall  save, 

-  Each  nvmph  your  rival,  and  each  youth  your  slave  ? 
Against  vour  favnt-  with  fondness  hat.--  combin£S? 
The  rival  betters,  and  the  lover  mines. 

-With  distant  voice  neglected  virtue  calls  ; 
L.-.SS  heard  and  less,  the  faint  remonstrance  falls  ; 
Ti'-'d  with  contempt,  she  quits  the  slipp'ry  rein, 
And  pride  and  prudence  take  her  seat  in  vain, 
In  crowd  at  once,  where  none  the  pass  defend, 
The  harmless  freedom,  and  the  private  friend. 

••lardians  yield,  by  force  superior  ply'd, 
To  intVest,  prudence  ;  and  to  flart'ry,  pride. 
Here  beauty  falls  betray'd,  despis'd  distrest  ; 
And  hissing  ;-  'oclaims  the  rest. 

Where  then  shall  hop  .tr  their  objects  find  < 

Must  dull  su.--  gnruu  mind  ? 

Mu  ss  man,  in  ignorance  sedate, 

Koii  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 


Must  no  iarm,  no  wishes  rise, 

No  cries  invoke  the  r  <>f  the  skits  2 

lii. juirer,  cc:, 

'Which  Heav'n  iv.  :  nor  derm  religion  vain. 

Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  vo 

Bat  leave  to  Ikav'u  tin 

in  his  pow'r  .  far 

lore  his  aid,  in  his  decisiu-. 

!iate\;r  he  gives'  he  gives  the  1 
when  the  sense  of  Sacred  Presence  nY 
An;1 

ir  forth  thy  1  healthful 

'  Obedient  passior^,  :v.,  -.n'd  ' 

.     .  fill  : 

reign  o?er  trar.nmuti  d  ill  ; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happl 

,'\  kind  nature's  signal  of  retreat  : 
se  goods  for  man  die  laws  of  Heav'n  ordain, 
These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  pow'r  to  gain  ; 
With  these  celestial  wisdom  calms  the  mind, 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 

PR.  JOHNSON, 


APPENDIX: 

Containing  Biographical  Sketches  of  the  authors  mentioned  in  the  "In- 
to the  K;;  uler,"  "The   Kngi'-sh    Reader"  itself, 
and  ;                             ike  Header."     With  Occasional  Strictures  on 
their  writings. 

ADDISON,  Joseph,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  men  in 
English  iiurature,  was  born  in  the  year  1672.  Alter  re- 
ceiving the  rudiments  of  his  education  at  different  schools, 
he  was  admitted  into  Quern's  College,  Oxford.  In  1693, 
he  took  his  degree  oi  Master  of  Arts,  and  was  eminent 
for  his  Latin  poetry.  He  distinguished  himself  by  several 
small  pieces;  and  in  1699,  obtained  from  king  William  a 
pension  of  oOOl  a  year,  to  enable  him  to  travel.  He  went 
leisurely  through  France  and  Italy,  improving  his  mind  to 
the  best  advantage  ;  as  Appears  from  his  u  Letter  to  Lord 
Halifax,"  esteemed  the  most  elegant  of  his  poetical,  per- 
formances; and  his  u  Travels  in  Italy." 

His  celebrated  "  Campaign,"  procured  him  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  commissioner  ot  appeals.  In  1706  he  was  made 
under-secretary  to  the  secretary  of  state  ;  and  in  1709,  the 
Marquis  of  Wharton  being  appointed  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
Ireland,  to->k  Addison  with  him,  as  his  chief  secretary*  In 
1716  he  married  the  countess  dowager  of  Warwick.  This 
marriage  neither  found  nor  made  the  parties  equal :  and 
Addison  has  left  behind  him  no  encouragement  lor  ambi- 
tious love.  In  1717  he  rose  to  his  highest  elevation,  being 
made  secretary  of  state  to  George  the  First.  His  insuper- 
able diffidence,  and  his  want  of  talent  for  public  speaking, 
joined  to  his  declining  health,  induced  him  soon  afterwards 
to  solicit  his  dismission  from  office.  This  was  granted, 
\vith  a  pension  of  15001.  a  year. 

He  had  for  some  time  been  afHicted  with  an 'asthmatic 
disorder,  which  ended  in  the  dropsy.  He  employed  the 
leisure  of  his  closing  life,  in  supporting  those  religious 
principles  which  had  accompanied  the  whole  course  of  it. 
He  drew  up  a  "  Defence  of  the  Christian  Religion,"  which 
\vas  published  in  an  unfinished  state  after  his  death.  When, 
all  hopes  of  prolonging  life  were  at  an  end,  Addison  sent 
for  a  young  man,  nearly  related  to  him,  (supposed  to  have 
been  his  step-son  the  earl  of  Warwick,)  and  grasping  hi* 

:  21 


2o2  APPEKD1X. 

hand,  said  to  him  with  tender  emphasis,  u  See  in  what 
peace  a  Christian  can  die."  He  expired  in  1719,  in  the 
48th  year  of  his  life. 

The  writings  of  Addison,  are,  chiefly,  poetical,  critical, 
and  moral.  He  had  a  large  share  in  the  Tatlcr,  Spectator, 
Guardian,  and  other  periodical  works.  His  Hymns  are 
much  admired  for  their  ease,  elegance  and  harmony,  as 
well  as  for  the  cheerful  and  correct  strain  of  piety  that  per- 
vades them.  "  The  Spectator"  stands  at  the  head  of  all 
publications  of  a  similar  kind.  With  the  happiest  combi- 
nation of  seriousness  and  ridicule,  these  papers  discuss  the 
smaller  morals  and  the  decencies  of  life,  elegance  and  just- 
ness of  taste,  the  regulation  of  temper,  and  the  improve- 
ment of  domestic  society.  In  some  ot  thtm,  Addison  takes 
the  higher  tone  of  a  religious  monitor.  All  the  ench  tnt- 
ments  of  fancy,  and  all  the  cogency  of  argument,  are  em- 
ployed to  recommend  to  the  reader  his  real  interest,  the 
care  of  pleasing  the  Author  of  his  being.  His  papers  in 
"  The  Spectator,"  are  marked  by  some  one  of  the  letters 
composing  CLIO.  The  popularit)  of  this  work  rose  to  such 
a  height,  that,  in  a  much  less  reading  age  than  the  present, 
,  /</of  the  paprrs  vv  limes  sold  in  a  day. 

As  a  poet,  Addison  chums  a  high  praise,  though  not  the 
highest.  Generally  elegant,  sometimes  strong,  and  fre- 
quen.lv  ingenious,  he  has  but  little  of  that  vivid  force  and 
sublime  conception,  which  char  a  pott  of  the  first 

rank  :  nor  has  he  that  finr  polish  and  dr.zzling  brilliance, 
which  give  a  titli-  to  an  exalted  place  in  the  second.  It  is 
from  his  own  original  v«-in  of  hun.oiir,  and  ol  ingenious  in- 
vention, dis;. laved  in  his  periodical  works,  that  Addison 
-h»rst  and  most  durable  literary  fame.  As  a 
model  of  K'ltflish  his  wmitig.i  merit  the  greatest- 

praise.  u  Whoever,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  4t  wishes  to  attain 
an  English  st\le,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but 
not  o  tcntui;.ou>,  mu^t  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  vo- 
-v.-s  of  Addison.'1 

AKENSIDE,  Mark,  an  English  poet  and  physician,  was 
''•cm  at  Newcastle  upon  Tyne,  in  J  7-1.  Kis  father  was  a 
«ubst  i'O  gave  his  son  a  liberal  education, 

iaundin-  to  quaiifv  him  for  the  office  of  a  d^en.ing  mi- 
uisiei.  fh  son,  how  ever,  preferred  the  stuuy  of  physic*, 
and  in  1 744-  took  the  degree  of  Doctor, 


APPENDIX.  5:53 

la  this  year  appeared  his  capital  poem,  "  On  the  Plea- 
sures of  the  Imagination;"  which  was  n  ceivul  with 
applause,  and  at  once  raised  the  author  to  poetical  f-mc. 
In  1745  he  published  ten  odes  on  different  subjects,  and  in 
a  style  and  manner  much  diversified.  These  works  charac- 
terised him  as  a  zealous  votary  of  Grecian  philosophy  and 
classical  literature,  and  an  ardent  lover  ot  libei  ly. 

He  wrote  several  medical  treatises,  which  increas.  d  his 
practice  and  reputation.  But  it  is  said  he  had  a  haughti- 
ness, and  ostentation  of  manner,  which  were  not,  calculated 
to  ingratiate  hmi  with  his  brethren  01  the  faculty,  or  to 
render  him  generally  acceptable.  He  died  of  a  puirid  fe- 
ver, in  1770,  in  the  49th  year  of  his  age. 

The  rank  which  Akenside  holds  among  the  English  clas- 
sics, is  principally  owing  to  his  didactic  po  m,  on  the 
"  Pleasures  of  the  I  magi  nation,*'  a  work  finished  at.  three- 
and-twenty,  and  which  his  it  performances  never 

e quailed.  Its  foundation  is  th«-  elegant,  f.nd  even  pr-etical 
papers  on  the  same  subject,  by  Aadison,  in  the  Spectator  , 
but  he  has  so  expanded  the  plan,  and  enriched  the  illu>tru- 
tions  from  the  stores  of  philosophy  and  poetry,  tr 
would  be  injurious  to  deny  him  the  claim  of  an  original 
writer.  No  pot- m  of  so  elevated  and  abstracted  a  kind  was 
ever  so  popular.  Ii  is  thought  by  some  persons  of  fine 
taste,  to  be  the  most  beautiful  didactic  poem  that  ever 
adorned  the  English  language. 

ARSIS!  RONG,  John,  a  poet  rxnrl  physician,  was  born  \r 
;nd,  about  the  year  17O9.  He  studied  in  the  univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh  ;  and  took  his  degree  vviih  reputation,  in 
1732.  He  settled  in  London,  w*here  he  appeared  in  the 
double  capacity  of  author  and  physician :  but  his  success 
in  the  former,  as  has  frequently  b-  seems  to 

have  impeded  his  progress  in  the  latter.  He  \frott  several 
small  pieces,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  But  his  reputation 
as  a  poet,  is  almost  solely  founded  on  his  u  Art  of  preserv- 
ing Health  ;'*  for  his  other  pieces  scarcely  rise  above  me- 
diocriiy.  This  may  well  rank  among  thtr  first  didactic  po- 
ems in  the  English  language.  Though  that  cl  ss  of  poetry 
is  not  of  the  highest  order,  yet  the  variety  incident  to  his 
subject,  has  given  him  the  opportunity  of  displaying  his 
powers  on  some  of  the  most  i.-levated  and  interesting  to- 
pics -,  and  they  are  found  fully  adequate  to  the  occasion. 


and 

' 

ilc 

der. 

.  n   in 
Sco 

Ai 

thv  un'r. 

ilch 

i.iti- 
ful  piece  c 

The  M 
of  v 

•     .    . 

;  PhiiobOjvhy 
• 

Not  long  ar\   r  y  on 

-.try  and 

Scepticism."     This  work  d<  him  to  be  an  anx- 

ious promoter  c;  ;ind  ;  a  judicious 

philosopher;  ar,  ner.     It 

cxr  Circle   of  his 

nils  :  var^-ji^st  \\ !  :-iied  Dr.  Gregory  of 

Edinburgh,  the  earl  of   ?  t,  Dr.  Johnson,  lord  Lyt- 

rs  liurd  and  Porte  us,  the  bishops  oi  Wor- 
cester and  London. 

In  iT83,  he  :  I  u  Dissertations  Moral  and  Criti- 

,.rto  ;  and  in  17b6,  at  m- 

ion  of  t:  L  bishop  of  Loiiu-.-n,    u  E\iJc;:ces 

Religion/''  in  two  small  volumes.    l:i  i 

red  "  The  Elements  of  Moral  Science,"  iu 


:tavo.   .All  these  worksA display  good  sense, 
ledge,  and  able  reasoning.    Dr.  Bv  attic's  ill 


two  volumes 
extensive  fen- 

state  of  health  disqualified  hi:r,,  for  some   rime  heibre  his 

death,  from   performing  the  duties  of  his  cftice  in  the  uni- 

ity.   lie  died  in  1803,  in  th;   68th  year  of  his  age, 

Dr.  Beattie  possess-  d  a  vigorous  understanding  and  a 
'  most  benevolent  heart.  His  talents  were  improved  to  a 
high  degree,  by  -  very  species  of  science  and  litera- 

ture, lie  had  deeply  studied  the  evidence  on  which  the 
truth  of  Christianity  rests  ;  an<i  the  result  was,  an  unskaken 
persuasion  of  us  Divine  original.  This  induced  him  to  la- 
bour zealously  to  convince  others  of  what  he  himself  so 
firmly  believed,  and  so  highly  appreciated. 

His  poeticai  talents  were  very  considerable  :  and  had  he 
continued  to  cultivate  them,  in  advanced  life,  he  would 
probably  have  attaineoSstill  higher  celebrity.  But  there  is 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  long  neglected  the  mountain  of 
u  Olympus"  for  the  hill  of  "  Zion,"  and  was  more  anxious 
to  attain  the  character  of  a  Christian  hero,  than  that  of  the 
greatest  of  modern  bards. 

BERKLEY,  George,  the  celebrated  bishop  of  Gloyne,  was 
born  in  Ireland,  in  1684,  He  possessed  a  most  comprehen- 
sive and  acute  mind,  which  received  all  the  aids  of  educa- 
tion. His  first  essays  as  a  writer  were  published  in  the 
Spectator  and  Guardian ;  which  entertaining  works  he 
adorned  with  many  pieces  in  favour  of  virtue  and  religion. 
He  published  several  very  ingenious  treatises  on  philoso- 
phical subjects;  the  most  celebrated  of  which  is  his  a  Mi- 
nute Philosopher/' 

He  conceived  a  noble  and  benevolent  plan  for  convert- 
ing the  savage  Americans  to  Christianity,  by  a  college  to 
be  erected  in  the  Summer  Islands,  otherwise  called  the 
Isles  of  Bermuda.  But  the  design,  after  several  years  la- 
bour to  accomplish  it,  was  frustrated  by  the  ignorance  or 
misconduct  of  those  on  whom  he  depended  for  support. 
He  died  suddenly,  in  1753,  at  Oxford  ;  and  was  buried  in 
Christ  Church,  where  there  is  a  monument  erected  to  his 
memory.  / 

His  morality,  religion,  manners,  and  disposition,  were 
equal  to  his  extraordinary  abilities.  Pope,  by  whom  lie  was 
well  known,  sums  up  his  character  in  one  line.  After  men- 


r  virtues,  which  i 
i..tcs  tlu-r. 

BLAIR,  Dr.  -r>rn  in  Kclin! 

entered    the    hursiar.m  '.i   the   I' 

assi-11 

'  d  his 
•3  the 

i   St.  An 
in  1757,  i    I).  I). 

oi    liis 
i  table 

salary.    Ii  <i  with 

great  applause.   In  1783,  \vhcni  .he  labours 

of  the  oiiice,  h. 
B  lies  I  g  :1J  and   th 

,  and  com- 
.  tor  ibrii  !  cul- 

It  was  long  tf  the 

world  in  the  pul- 

. 
. 

1  they 

will  1(  i  ura  hie  m  on  unit  nts  oi 

I 

ue  ex- 
ird   into 
languages  of  I  it  them  v 

,1  coniei :  .on  of 

ontinued  d  lili  his  death. 

In  1748   he-  married  an  excellent  woman,  pos 

sense  and  merit.      By  her  he  h  id  a  s«- 
infancy  ;  and  a  d;- 

I  s-x.    He  lost  his  wife 


a  few  years  before  his  death,  after  she  had;  with   the  ten- 
affection,  shared. in  ail  ru's  fortunes,  and  contributed 
',  \lf  a  century  to  his  comfort  and  happiness. 

His  last  summer  was  devoted  to  the  preparation  of   the 
fifth  volume  of  his  sermons  ;    and,  in  the  course  of  it,  he 

ud  a  vigour  of  understanding,  and  capacity  of 
tion,  equal  to  the  powers  of  his  best  days.      But  the 
of  a  mortal  disease  were  lurking  unperceived  within  him. 
At  the  close  of  the  year  1800,  he  felt  that  he  was  approach- 
ing the  end  of  his  course.   He  however,  retained  to  the  last 
moment  the  full  possession  of  his  mental  faculties  ;   and 
expnv.d  with  the  composure  and  hope  which  becomes  a 
Christian  pastor. 

*-  Dr.  Blair  was  the  perfect  image  of  that  meekness,  sim- 
plicity, gfiitleness,  and  contentment,  which  his  writings  re- 
commend, lie  was  eminently  distinguished  through  life, 
by  the  prudence,  purity,  and  dignified  propriety  of  his  con- 
duct. His  mind,  by  constitution  and  culture,  was  admira- 
bly formed  for  enjoying  happiness.  Well  balanced  in  itself, 
by  tht-  nice  proportion  and  adjustment  of  its  faculties,  it 
did  not  incline  him  to  any  of  those  eccentricities,  either  of 
opinion  or  of  action,  which  are  too  often  the  lot  of  genius. 
Hx  was  long  happy  in  his  domestic  relations  ;  and,  though 
doomed  at  last  to  feel,  through  their  loss  in  succession,  the 
heaviest  strokes^of  affliction  ;  yet  his  mind,  fortified  by  re- 
ligious habits,  and  buoyed  up  by  his  native  tendency  to 
contentment,  sustained  itself  on  Divine  Providence,  and 
enabled  him  to  persevere  to  the  end,  in  the  active  and 
cheerful  discharge  of  the  duties  of  his  station  ;  preparing 
[for  the  world  the  blessings  of  elegant  instruction ;  tender- 
ing to  the  mourner  the  lessons  of  Divine  consolation  ;  guid- 
le  young  by  his  counsels ;  aiding  the  meritorious  with 
hiri  influence  ;  and  supporting,  oy  his  voice  and  by  his  con- 
duct, the  best  interests  of  his  country." 

BLAIR,  Robert,  a  Scottish  divine  and  poet,  was  born 
about  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  had  a 
very  liberal  education  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh; 
and  was  afterwards  sent  abroad  by  his  father,  for  improve- 
ment, and  spent  some  time  on  the  continent.  After  under- 
going the  usual  trials  appointed  by  the  church  of  Scotland, 
s  ordain-d  minister  of  Athelstaneford,  in  the  county 
of  East  Lothian,  in  1731,  where  he  passed  the  rein?, 
of  his  life. 


DC  v;ns  easy,  he  lived  very  much  ii;  I 

:md  u\.s  gteatiy  i 

chftrai  ;er  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  was  not  onl\  .. 
learning,  hut  ol  elegant  t 

ei-i  'led  to  considerable  distinction.    But  his  highest  pi 
is,  that  he  was  a  man  of  sincere  piety;  and  ve, 
in  -S  the  duties  of  his   cl.Yical  function.     A 

preacher   he  was  serious   and  warm.  ihc 

imagination  of  a  pou. — He  died  or  a  fever  in  1746,  in  the 
47  h  year  of  his  age. 

His   pc.  m  entitled  "  The  Grave,"  t  work, 

an  •  amph  establish-  me.      It  is  a  production  of  ; 

ge  .HIS,  and   po-  it  equal  to  many  pieces  of  the 

celebrit  i    uncon- 

n  e  ed  r  ,ind  of  n  ;n  indtpend- 

ol  one  another,  interuoven  with  si  -liusions,  and 

digressive   sallies   of    imagination.      V  r    subject   is 

or  aimed  at,  the  poet  always  emkavours 
to  melt  the  heart,  and  alarm  the  conscience,  by  pathetic  de- 
Gcription  and  serious  remonstrances  ;  and  his  sentimcnte 
an/  delivered  in  a  novel  and  energetic  manner,  that  im- 
presses them  strongly  on  the  mind.  lie  is  always  moral, 
never  dull;  and  though  he  often  expands  an  image,  yet 
h*  n  s  its  force.  If  the  same  thought  occurs,  he 

gives  it  a  new  form  ;  and  is  copious  without  heing  tiresome. 
He  writes  under  the  strong  impression  of  Christian  and  mo- 
nuths.  Conviction  gives  force  to  imagination;  and  he 
dips  his  pen  in  the  stream  which  religion  has  opened  in  his 
own  bosom. 

Cicr.RO,  Marcus  Tullius,  an  illustrious  Roman  orator 
and  Philosopher,  was  born  105  years  before  the  Christian 
era.  Whv  thrr  we  consider  him  as  an  orator,  a  statesman, 
or  a  philosopher,  he  appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  great- 
est men  of  antiquity.  After  having  served  his  country  in 
an  eminent  degree,  he  was  assassinated  by  the  orders  of 
ony,  his  inveterate  enemy.  He  was  distinguished  by 
great  powers  of  mind,  which  were  cultivated  to  the  high- 
est pitch.  He  had  many  virtues;  but  they  were  .obscured 
by  in  excessive  vanitv,  which  can  be  palliated  but  little  by 
the  principles  and  the  manners  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived* 
His  dialogues  on  Old  As*,  md  on  Friendship,  are  ex- 
tremely elegunrand  agreeable  pieces  of  moral  writing  j  and 


APPF.NT'1-  23 » 

liis  Orations  are  perfect  mock-L,  :n  that  species  of  compo- 
sition* 

COTTON.  N.u^tm.-l.  Of  his  family,  birth-place,  and  edu- 
cation, ihere  arc  no  written  m<  moi  ials.  He  was  bred  to  the 
profession  of  physic,  in  which  he  took  the  degree  of  doc- 
tor, lie  settled  as  a  physician  at  St.  Albans,  in  Hertford- 
shire, where  he  acquired  great  reputation  in  his  profession, 
and  continued  to  reside  till  his  death.  In  the  latter  part  of 
his  life,  he  kept  a  house  for  the  reception  of  lunatics. 

In  1751,  he  published  his  "Visions  in  verse,  for  the 
Entertainment  and  Instruction  ot  Younger  Minds."  This 
publication  was  favourably  received  by  the  polite  and  reli- 
gious world.  His  u  Visions"  are  the  most  popular  of  his 
productions,  and  not  inferior  to  the  best  compositions  of 
that  nature,  in  the  English  language.  His  u  Fables"  ap- 
proach the  manner  of  Gay;  but  they  have  less  poignancy  of 
satire. 

Of  his  miscellaneous  poems,  u  The  Fire  Side,"  is  the 
most  agreeable.  The  subject  is  universally  interesting;  the 
sentiments  are  pleasing  and  pathetic  ;  and  the  versification 
elegant  and  harmonious.  The  verses  "  To  a  Child  five 
years  old,"  are  exquisitely  beautiful.  The  u  Ode  on  the 
New-Year,"  is  pious,  animated,  and  poetical.  His  lighter 
pk-ces  are  not  deficient  in  ease  and  spnghtliness,  and  mar 
be  read  with  pleasure. 

Cotton  died  at  St.  Albans  in  1788,  and  in  an  advanced 
age.  His  moral  and  intellectual  character  appears  to  have 
been,  in  a  high  degree,  aimabie  and  respectable.  His  writ- 
ings are  distinguished  by  strong  marks  of  piety,  learning, 
taste,  and  benevolence.  As  a  poet  his  compositions  are 
marked  by  a  refined  elegance  of  sentiment,  and  a  corres- 
pondent simplicity  of  expression.  Ke  writes  with  ease  and 
correctness,  frequently  with  elevation  and  spirit.  His 
thoughts  are  just  and  pure.  As  piety  predominated  in  his 
mind,  it  is  diffused  over  his  compositions.  Under  his  di- 
rection, poetry  may  be  truly  said  to  be  subservient  to  reli- 
gious and  moral  instruction.  Every  reader  will  regard 
with  veneration  the  writer  who  condescended  to  lay  aside 
the  scholar  and  philosopher,  to  compose  moral  apologues, 
and  little  poems  of  devotion,  u  for  the  entertainment 
instruction  of  younger  minds." 


th,  —  was  h-vn  in 

,  U  ai  :u-d,  and  \\ 
in  iiu    L.itin  and  (ii\  ek   i    . 
t<  ac.h    tin  ni,    lLat   bh 

ducat  ion, 

In  17J8  she  I  ;i    the 

wo?  ks  of   1 

i  .    The  i, 

\\-oi  k,  arc    v.     i    1  < 

:;d    K)   du 

hour  to  h<  r 

In  1  , 

Tin  \   \v  '>n, 

>vho  had   i  i  ad   lh 

ty  (  '  .     mi- 

pli(.  aiity 
tin  m(jst  am 

She  :o  "  The 

KanihUr,"    \^  -r.   John 

The  ion 

urc  i   an  iu- 

gt  ni«»us  ,»   iiiociish   p!                                 the 
i  -arc  oi  (. 

'lh\^  it  \vr^ni:in  ivaa                                                    r  su- 

perior i  null  r  nd 

familiar,  i;  pm  i!                                                                       the 

ITU'1  !    -^        {' 

311,  -  !,   sh».     \v 

\  er  in  triii. 
int-)  conripjiiiy.      Hrr 

-ibility   to   all   the  f  the  alilicted  ;    and    her 

mind  piously  resigned  to  meet  with   fortitude   the  chaiv 
and  chances  of  lite.    Her  firm  faith  in  the  Christian  religion 
strengthened  in  her  the  performance  ri  every  duty:  and  it 
may  be  truly  s  aid,  that  with  all  her  very  rare  endowments, 
goodness  of  heart,  mildness  of  t  -mper,  and  suavity  of  man- 
ners, were  eminently  cons_>iv  -o     .  —  'his   tmiahle  and  dis-  , 
languished   person  di»jd   in  the  year  1806,  at  the  advanced 
age  of  eighty-eight  years. 


APPENDIX.  251 

COWPER,  William, — an  Kn^'i.  h  poet  of  great  celebrity, 
IV.-,  oo- n  <u  Berkhamstead,  in  riertiordshire,  in  the  y  ar 
I7oi.  In  his  iniancy  he  Was  extrenv  1\  delicate;  arid  his 
constitution  discovered,  at  a  \vrv  early  season,  that  morbid 
tend,  nc\  to  diffidence, 'melancholy,  and  despair,  which  pro- 
duced, us  he  advanci  d  in  years,  periodical  fits  of  the  most 
depior  ;b.r  depression.  He  was  educated  at  Westminster 
school,  where  his  nuiaral  timidity  was  increased,  by  the-  ar- 
mt  -and  boisterous  behaviour  of  some  of  Im  school-tel- 
lows.  '•  I  v/:t.s,?4  saui  he,  ifc  so  dispirited  by  chr(m,that  1  -lid 
not  dare  to  raise  my  eyes  above  the  shoe-buckles  of  the  el- 
d  r  hoy-,  " 

lie  was  rtrnov  d  from  school  to  the  office  of  an  attor- 
ney ;  from  whence,  after,  three  years,  he  settled  himself  ia 
chambers  of  the  Inner-Trmplr,  as  a  regular  student  of  lavv^ 
where  he  resided  to  the  age  oi  thirty-three.  But  this  pro- 
fession did  not  suit  his  diffidence,  his  love  of  retirement,  or 
his  poetical  genius.  *>  I  rambled,1'  said  he,  *'  from  the 
thorny  road  of  my  austere  patroness,  jurisprudence,  into 
the  primrose  paths  of  htev ature  and  poetry."  Cowper  was 
appointed  C?erk  of  the  Journals  of  the  House  of  Lords  ; 
and  a  parliamentary  dispute  making  it  necessary  for  him  to 
appear  at  the  bar  of  the  house,  h~s  terrors  on  this  occasion 
rose  to  so  astonishing  a  height,  that  they  overwhelmed  his 
reason  :  he  was  obliged  to  relinquish  a  station  so  formida- 
ble to  his  singular  sensibility. 

In  a  few  months,  his  mind  became  tranquil  and  clear; 
and  resolving  to  abandon  all  thoughts  of  a  laborious  pro- 
fession, and  all  intercourse  with  the  busy  world,  he  settled 
in  t  765,  in  the  town  of 'Huntingdon.  Here  commenced  his 
acquaintance  v  ith  a  respectable  clt  rgyman,  and  his  amiable 
,  who  resided  in  that  town  :  their  name  was  Unwin. 
About  two  years  afterwards,  the^hulba^d  di<  d  ;  and  from 
ng  the  course  of  near  thirty  years,  this  ex- 
in  was  a  most  distinguished  friend  and  guar- 
dian oi-  Cowper.  Of  her  piety  and  virtue,  and  her  eminent 
invariable  kindness  to  him,  he  has  Mt  many  aff  ctionate 
and  grateful  memorials.  In  the  lapse  of  these  years,  he  was 
several  times  oppressed  with  derangement  of  "mind,  which 
was  extremely  distressing  19  his  friends,  who  entertained 
for  him  the  purest  sentiments  eS£est*em  and  re^rd,  Dur- 
ing his  lucid  intervals,  which  continued  several  years,  he 


,IX. 


s  perfectly  himself;   a  :ited,  in  his  writings,  ihe 

st  uneqmvo&il    proofs  of  it.      His 

Hciiijr,  for  th 

ienced,   \  }lis    p^.  u  as 

ijatingnjslu 

ich  are.  r, 
with    fine    traits   of   ti 

m  in  i  lu- 
This  v 

Tiu>  Taj  he;  "  mn 

fancy, 

fmess;    his 
;  his  dangers,  and  s  ;  all  with 

i  isite  facility,  ce  of  expression,  will: 

;>race  and  digmt\  r,  that   rational   beings,  \vlio 

v>ish  to  render  tin. 

in  the 

k  Tranhlalicn  of  il,  aiei',  in  I 

:3e.5>     This  wrr  c   to  last,  gave  Couper  ten 

years  of  useful  and  pleasing  employment.  It  has  consider- 
able merit;  particularly  in  its  near  approach  to  that  sweet 
majestic  simplicity,  which  forms  one  of  the  most  attractive 
features  in  the  great  prince  and  father  of  poets. 

The  inquietude  and  darkness  of  Cowper's  latter  years, 
were  terminated  by  a  most  gentle  and  tranquil  dissolution. 
He  died  in  the  year  180O- — We  shall  close  this  sketch  of 
him,  with  a  striking  eulogium  made  by  his  biographer  on 
his  character  and  writings :  u  The  more  the  works  of  Cow- 
per  are  read^the  more  hlBheaders  will  find  reason  to  ad- 
mire the  variety,  and  the  extent,  the  graces,  and  the  ener- 
gy, of  his  literary  talents.  The  universal  admiration  excit- 
ed by  these,  will  be  heightened  and  endeared  to  the  friends 
of  virtue,  by  the  obvious  reflection,  that  his  writings,  ex- 
cellent as  they  appear,  were^xcelled  by  the  gentleness,  the 
benevolence,  and  the  sanctity  of  his  life.'' 

CUNNINGHAM,  John,  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  1729,  he  re- 
ceived his  education  at  the  grammar  school  of  Djrogheda  ; 


and  earlv  hejra 


'  -APPENDIX. 


s"P!>oSecl,  hy  his  stv] 
-'  agl.    Hi,  work  is  the 

s  of 


s  work.    H«-    J 
•  the  A%H,s! 

ning  atcount  we 


""  «^«  ng  ch,n!aWe  i;tl,s  nrrar  Hblt  f°r  hi«      a 

SwJ'  .°',which  4  ^2SSr^ij  ^*«%d  lts 


( 


*  22 


APPI 


DonniUDr.F.,  Philip  —  an  eminent 
t  d  >n\  in  London,  in  the  year  17O^.    IK   v. 

•l;ir,  and   had   a  n>  \\ith   a 

variety  of  knowledg  he   kept 

lemy  of  distinguished  reputation.     Du 

is,  in  which  h  ied  the  ofTicc  of  tutor,  he  h 

about  two  hundred  young   m  .'>iu 

one    hundred  and  twent\  i    in   the    iuinistiy.      At 

thampton,  he  a  m'm- 

r  and  instriu  :  in  d  and  i 

ry  j  n,  for   tr.e  extent  of   his   Kain 

ness  of  his  mam  ofhisliie.    Th 

lent  man   died    in    175lvat   Lisbon,   whither   he    had    g 
with  the  hope  of  recovering  his  ht> 

His  work  entitKd  kk    i  I  of  K*  ' 

mi- 

L  for  rank,  learning  and  piety,  in  tl:  -hed  church, 

s  v. 

.  not  onlv  in  this  but   in  A 

the  continent  of 

vols,  oetavo,  is  hi  <•      it   } 

and 

•with  the  'iip.   It  i  r,  ;i  M- 

Ligi 

lain  or  e 

am!  el. 

We  shall  coi;  h  the  testimo; 


Dr.    Doei-.liKlge  \vus    I 

ut  and    us  --iis, 

sti.in  m'n.sti  is,  that  t  ^Jd. 

DYKR,  J<>hn  —  .»n    English  poet,  was  born  in  Wales,  in 
the   year  17(X).      II-  '    in   the 

countrv,  an--:  1    his  studies  at  Westmlnsttjf  school. 

His  father  in  him  for  the  profession  of  the  law  :  but 

pair.tingand  pott  v  were  his  most  agreeable  sUul; 

.  int..  luix"  ior  improvcinmt  ;  and  at  Home  formed 
of  his  poem  c.ille  <  u  The  Ruins  oi  Home  ;"  which 

aftr-.r  his  return,  in  1  74O. 
A  KC  nous  turn  of  v  uul.  ill  health, 
rude,  and  reflection,  inclined  him  to  the  cluuui  ; 


APPENDIX. 

he  accordingly  entered  into  orders.   He  was  a  very  ami;; 
and  rc-p':  Liable  man  ;  beloved  by  his  friends  for  the  sw  • 
ne^s  and  gentleness  of  his  disposition,  and  respected  by 
world,  as  a  person  of  superior  endowments. 

In  1757  he  published  h:s  u  Fleece  ;''  but  he  did  not  loru^ 
survive  it.  He  died  in  1753,  in  the  58th  year  of  bis  tig. 

Dr.    Johnson   says   that   4i  Dyer's    '  Grongar  hill7  is   the 
happiest  of  his  productions.    It  is  not  indeed  very  nccur. 
ly  written  :  but  the  scenes  which  it  displays  are  so  pleasing, 
the  images  which  they  raise  so  welcome   to  the  mind,  and 
the   reflections  of  the  writer  so   consonant  to   the   general 
sense  or  experience  of  mankind,  that  when  it  is  once  reacfi 
it  will  be  read  ag.-iin.'' 

ENFII:.LD,  William — an  eminent  djsstmung  minister,  and 
an  elegant  writer,  was  born  at  Sluibury,  in  1741.  In  1763, 
he  was  ordained  minister  of  a  congregation  at  Liverpool, 
where  !•  ne,d  notice  as  a  pie:, sing  preacher,  and 

an  amiable  y.    I-  1770,  he  accepted  an  invita- 

tion to  •-  :t  tutor,  n:ui  lecturer  in  the  belles- 

•  es,   in    the  academy  at    '  m;    and    he    fulfilled 

these  offices  for  several  years,  vvitl  hligence  avid  re- 

putation.  In  1635,  h-.  of  tlie  princip  ;1  con- 

gregation  at  i  ;  where  he  contitniui  usefully  and  ho- 

nourably occupied,  till  his  drain,  \vhich  happened  in  1797. 
publicati  chiei  of   i.heai  ar' 

rx.lr 


:  al  Sermons  on  the  principal  Characters  in  the  Old  and 
s;""  Institutes^!  Natural  Philosophy, 
••retic-1  ;"   and  .lution   called 

"'i  -V, 

*      FLATLOX,  Francis  de   Sali^u  archbishop 

of   Ca't 

his    time,    was    born    of  ai  c    iuniii--.    in 

France,  in  the  year  1G51.  He  made  a  rapid  progress  in 
learning1  ;  and  being  destined  to  the  ecclesiastical  proles- 
s  became  a  preacher  as  early  as  his  nineteenth  year. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-four,  he  entered  into  orders,  and  ex- 
erci!  -.i'mistry  :  his  sin- 

:ed  the  king 
i  chief  ol'-a  H  rsion  of 


A  IMM'.VIHX. 


Mild   not  acc 

In  1 

• 

i  he 

him  am 

ch- 

ititied    vk  An 

,!)lc 

•   i 

' 
• 

.}  to 

.i  iv   n  them  iron/ 
-   to  them,  and   c 

his  cour.tr v  ;  for  in  tlu-  1.  si  w  •»  XIV.  i: 

Of  station,  cxpr^sly 

the  lands  o;  1  spared. 

tit  man  died  in  1715  :   he  expired  in  perfect 
tr.snquUity,  ilteplv  1  by  all  the  ii  the 

Low-countries,  and   especially  by  the  flock   Commuted  to 
hi*?  '  h .>r£i-. 

Brides  other  uorks,  he  wrote  the  following: 
logues  on  Eloqiv  nee  :v  they  contain  the  most  solid  princi- 
ples on  the  art  of  persuasion,  of  vvhich.hr  tn-ats  hoth  like 
an  orator  and  a  ])hilosopher.  u  Ttlemachus/'  a  highly  po- 
pular work.  Nc\<  r  vvere  purer,  more  useful,  and  more  eie- 
vated  moxim**  of  public  and  pnvate  conduct, -offered  to  the 
htiroi  rchv.  "A  Treatise  on  the  Education  of 

Daughters  ;"  an  excellent  work.  u  Dialogues  of  the  dead. 


APPENDIX. 

K  A    clem;  .  i  of  the   existence   of  God,   by 

drawn  from  Nature."  u  Tiie  most  touching  charm  of  Fe- 
rn Ion's  works,"  says  an  eminent  writer,  "is  the  sensation 
of  peace  and  repose,  with  which  he  inspires  his  reader  :  he 
is  a  fiiencl  who  joins  himself  to  us  ;  is  his  sou!  iri- 

to  ours  ;  who  t-  and  at  least  for  a  time,  suspends  our 

troubles  and  altlict: 

FR  \\XMN,  Benjamin — a  philosopher  and  statesman,  of 
Viiv,  was  .horn   at    Boston  in    New-England,  in 
1705.     Fr  .«i!y  indications  of  a  disposition  for  lite- 

raunv  he  exhibited,  his  father  destined  him  for  the 

church:  ;>ut  tlv  of  a  large  family  prevented  him  from 

continuing  the  education  comnu.  need  for  this  purpose  ;  and 
at  th'j  age-  often,  he  was  taker,  home  to  be  employed  in  the 
offices  of  the  family  trade,  which  was  that  of  a  soap  boiler 
and  tallow-chandler  :  he  however,  soon  after  became  an  ap- 
prentice to  an  elder  brother,  who  was  a  printer.  In  a  short 
time  he  removed  to  Philadelphia,  and  engaged  in  the  ser- 
vice of  a  printer  in  that  city:  he  contracted  an  acquaint- 
ance with  several  young  men  iond  of  reading,  in  whose  so- 
ciety he  opent  his  evenings  and  improved  his  taste  :  his 
strong  powers  of  mind  joined  to  uncommon  industry,  fur- 
J  him  with  a  large  stock. of  useful  knowledge,  and 
rendered  him  highly  respectable  :  he  gradually  passed 
through  a  variety  of  public  employments,  constantly  gain- 
ing an  accession  of  honour  and  esteem  : — his  fame  stood 
high  boih  in  the  political  and  scientific  world,  in  1778  he 
was  sent  as  American  ambassador  to  France,  and  was  suc- 
cessful in  'negotiating  an  alliance  with  that  country.  In 
1783  he  also  acted  as  one  of  the  plenipotentiaries,  in  sign- 
ing the  treaty  of  peace  with  England.  In  1785,  he  return- 
ed to  America  ;  and  received  from  his  grateful  countryrru  n 
those  honours  and  distinctions,  which  he  had  justly  merit- 
ed. In  1788,  his  increasing  infirmities  caused  him  to  with- 
draw from  all  public  business;  .md  in  1790,  he  closed,  in, 

enity  and  resignation,  his  active  and  useful  life  of  eigh- 
t  -four  years, 

Dr.  Franklin  has  been  surpassed  by  few,  if  any  men,  in 
that  solid  practical  wisdom,  which  consists  in  pursuing  va- 
luable ends  by  the  most  appropriate  means  : — his  cool  tt-m- 
per  and  sound  judgment,  generally  secured  him  from  Use 
views  and  erroneous  expectations.  In  his  speculations  and 


268 


APPENDIX. 


pursuits,  so:-.  s  ever  in  Nation  : 

he  i  *•  1  h;.;\  c  alv  . 

hi<  .',   than  01 

ki    (1  oi  rt-pa:  .: 

n   ti)     o 
^    •  \  .  d    t>\    t 

• 

.  •       • .  i  in •  s ,    ; 

n>n» 

GAY    John- 

13  a»  -hiie,  IT)   1CKS  :  1: 

tion  ;»l  llie  fr 
put  appivnt:. 
!igqi)t    ai; 
agrt-«  iiu-nt.    iJr  ! 

iv     10    otli-  tilii 

niu-'vs.    In  1711 

>  iln-d  to  w  idi 

himseU.   'I'his  coinj/i;  \\\\\- 

ing  temj  iip, 

\vhic!i  u  .    In  171J  he  ucci-pivd  ;m 

o'V  r    'I   ,      ;  ling  \vi  h  tii     d  ic.  quality 

ie  pr   clucc-il  the  poen)  en- 

^'  Lon- 

ihe 

The 

ral 
a-n 

to 

r.    In   1  7 

r  the   instruction  of  the   ck;k>-  c/t'   C 

it  tntrit, 

an  ;  il<'  wiote 

^vhich  a>:  hi^  literary  rc-pu- 

15.  t  his  most  i'r>rnvince  of  this  kind  has 

h,  t  i  jn  ivincr  a  tendency  to   sap  tiu   If)  .n- 

njoraiity  :  though  it  ih  hi^niy  c 

that  G:r  is  Mitentions  in  Anting  it. 

Gay  met  with  disappointments,  which  dejected  his  spi- 


APPENDIX.  269 

rits  and  affected  his  health  :  he  however  employed  himself 
in  composition,  till  the  year  1732,  when  he  died 
of  an  inflmnmation  of  UK  bowels,  at  the  ag£  of  forty -four. 

The  private  character  of  Gay  was  that  of  easy  good  na- 
ture, and  undesigning  simplicity  ;  and  he  was  much  belov- 
ed by  his  friends.  He  possessed  but  little  energy  of  mind; 
and  had  too  much  indolence  to  support  that  independence, 
to  which  his  principles  inclined  him. 

GILHIN,  Will:am — a  clergyman  of  great  worth,  was  bora 
in  the  year  17^4.  In  1753,  he  first  attracted  public  notice 
by  his  merit  as  a  biographer,  wh<-n  he  published  the  liie  of 
his  lineal  ancestor,  the  celebrated  Ik  i  nurd  Gilpin,  com- 
monly called  "The  Northern  Apostle:"  he  aftterwards 
wrote  th.  lives  of  Latimer,  John  WicklifFe,  John  Huss, 
Jerome  of  Prague,  and  Zisca.  They  are  lively,  well  writ- 
ten, interesting  pieces  of  biography.  His  "  Lectures  on  the 
Church  Catechism,"  have  been  much  read  and  approved  : 
he  was  author  of  several  other  publications,  which  do  cre- 
dit t"  his  taste  and  abilities  :  his  life  corresponded  with  his 
writings.  Few  men  have  left  behind  them  a  higher  char. -c- 
ter  for  wisdom,  piety,  and  virtue  :• — he  died  in  the  eighti- 
eth year  of  his  age. 

GOLDSMITH,  Oliver— a  celebrated  English  writer,  was 
born  in  Ireland,  in  the  year  1.731  :  he  was  the  son  of  a  cler- 
gyman, who  gave  him  a  literary  education,  aiixl  ent  him, 
at  an  early  period,  to  Dublin  college.  Being  designed  for 
the  medical  profession,  he  removed  to  the  university  of 
Edinburgh,  where  he  continued  about  three  years.  Unable 
to  pay  a  d<-bt  which  he  had  contracted  there,  he  left  Edin- 
burgh clandestinely  ;  but  he  was  arrested  af  Sunderland, 
and  was  indebted  to  the  friendship  of  two  fellow-collegians, 
for  his  release  fro.n  confinement.  Under  these  unfavour- 
able auspices,  he  launched  into  the  world  ;  and  in  spite  of 
penury,  resolved  to  gratify  his  curiosity  by  a  European 
tour  :  he  remained  four  years  on  the  continent,  travelling 
e\vr  the  greater  part  of  it,  enjoying  the  scenes  of  nature, 
and  studying  the  human  passions  :  his  learning  and  other 
attainments,  procured  him  a  hospitable  reception  at  the  mo- 
nasteries ;  and  his  German  flute  made  him  welcome  to  the 
peasants  of  Flanders  and  Germany.  "  Whenever  I  ap- 
pro --tched  •!  peasant's  house  t  nightfall,*1  <nc  used  to 
say,  "  i  played  one  of  my  most  merry  tunes  ;  and  that  ge- 


ATI 

rieially  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging,  h: 
the  n>  \t  day  " 

On  his  return  to  9  in  so  narrow  circum- 

stance, that  it  was  long  be  lore  he  could  get 'employment 
iii  London,  IK  in 3  ujecte..  .  i  al  apoth^carus,  lo  \\hom 

he  of  ft- red  hnns-  It  as  a  journeyman.  vc  me  of  his  first  i  m- 
ploy  meats  were  those  o!  occupying  a  department  in  the 
JVlomhly  Review,  and  writin  ral  papers  in  the  Pub- 

lic  ]  ;sed  his  pen  in  obst  u- 

rity  :  but  in  1765,  he  suddenly  blazed  out  as  a  poet,  in  his 
u^  i'ravellti,  or  a  Pi.  ,"  Oi  this  wor!;,  that 

,   Dr.   Johnson,  liberally   and  justly    said,   that 
u  trure  had  not    K  I'ope's  tuiiv."1 

The    public  \vt  r  its  m    lit,  and    it  con- 

ferred upon  him  lical  tame  nai'h- 

c<j  its  summit  in  177O  b\  th*    publication  of  "  The  Dcseiied 
:a^tr,"  a  charming  poem,    \\hich  was  universally  admir- 
ed.   It  \v   uld  not  be  easy  to  point  out,  in  the  \vhoh-  com; 
of   Knglish  .  3  that  are  read  with  more  deii 

than  -%   ih-   DCS,  lage,"  and  ^  The  Traveller."  The 

ance  of  the  versification  ;  the  force  and  spU  ndour, 
simplicity,  oi  the  diction  ;  the  happy  mixture  of  animated 
sentiment  with  glowing  description  ;  are  calculated  to  please 
equally   the   re  lined   and  the   uncultivated   taste.      Besides 
oth<  .  in  prose,  he  wrote  "  A  Roman  History,"  u  A 

History  of  England,"  a  A  History  of  Greece,"  "  A  his- 
tory of  the  Karth  and  Animated  Nature,"  and  u  The  Ci- 
tizen of  the  world/'  These,  performances  are  both  amus- 
ing and  instructive. 

In  the  latfir  part  of  his  life,  he  was  afflicted  with  a  des- 
pondence of  mind,  which  brought  on  a  low  fevtr  and  great 
debility,  under  which  he  sunk  in  the  year  1774. 

Doctor  Goldsmith's  general  conduct  demonstrated  grent 
want  of  prudence  and  self-command.  He  was  rather  ad- 
mired for  his  genius,  and  beloved  for  his  benevolence,  than 
sol'dly  •  st/emed- — His  literary  character  is  compressed  by 
Dr.  Johnson  in  the  following  terms.  "  Goldsmith  was  a 
man  oi  such  variety  of  powers,  and  such  felicity  ol  perform- 
ance, that  he  always  seemed  to  do  best  that  which  he  was 
doing  ;  a  man  who  had  th-  art  of  being  minute  without  te- 
di'»Ms.:ess,  and  gm  ral  without  confusion  :  whose  language 
was  copious  without  exub,  rmce,  exact  without  constraint, 
and  easy  without  \feaknebs." 


APPENDIX.  2  ft 

GRAY,  Thomas, — an  eminent  English  poet,  was  th«-  son 
of  a  respectable  citizen  of  London,  and  horn  in  Cornhill, 
in  the  year  1716.  He  was  educated  at  Eton  school,  and 
thence  removed  to  St.  Peter's  college,  Cambridge,  in  1734. 
He  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  the  law  :  but  on  an  in- 
vitation from  his  friend,  the  celebrated  Horace  Walpole, 
he  accompanied  him  in  his  travels  through  France  and  Italy* 
Soon  after  his  return  to  England,  he  went  to  reside  at  Cam- 
bridge ;  and  was  seldom  absent  from  college  during  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life.  Mason  the  poet  was  his  intimate  friend, 
and  has  proved  himself  faithful  to  his  memory  and  just  to 
his  reputation,  in  the  "  Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Writings 
of  Gray."  In  1768  Gray  was  appointed  professor  of  mo- 
dern historv  :  but  his  health  declining,  he  was  never  able 
to  execute  the  duties  of  the  appointment.  In  the  year  1771 
he  died  of  the  gout. 

He  wrote  several  small  pieces  of  poetry  ;  but  that  by 
which  he  is  most  distinguished,  is  the  u  Elegy  written  in  a 
Country  Church  Yard.''  This  work  is  perhaps,  the  first  of 
the  kind  in  any  language  The  subject  is  universally  inter- 
esting ;  the  allegorical  imagery  is  sublime  ;  and  the  natu- 
ral description  is  picturesque  ;  the  sentiment  is  mostly  sim- 
ple and  pathetic  ;  and  the  versification  has  a  melody,  which 
has  not  often  been  attained,  and  cannot  be  surpassed.  The 
"  Ode  on  Spring,"  the  "  Ode  to  Adversity,"  and  the  "  Ode 
on  Eton  College,"  possess  the  true  spirit  of  poetry,  and  ex- 
quisite charms  of  verse. 

Gray  was  a  man  of  extensive  learning  :  he  was  equally 
acquainted  with  the  elegant  and  profound  parts  of  science^ 
and  that  not  superficially,  but  thoroughly:  he  knew  every 
branch  of  history,  both  natural  and  civil:  he  had  read  all 
the  original  historians  of  England,  France,  and  Italy ;  and 
he  was  a  great  antiquarian.  Criticism,  metaphysics,  mo- 
rals,  politics,  made  a  principal  part  of  his  study.  Voyages 
and  travels  of  all  sorts  were  his  favourite  amusements  ;  and 
he  had  a  fine  taste  in  painting,  prints,  music,  gardening, 
and  architecture  :  he  w:  s  moreover,  a  man  of  good  breed- 
ing, virtue,  and  humanity. 

GREGORY,  John — professor  of  medicine  in  the  univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh,  was  born  at  Aberdeen,  in  1724 :  he  re- 
ceived a  very  judicious  education,  and  was  extremely  dili- 

23 


272  APPENDIX*. 

gent  in  attending  a  variety  ot  lectures  connected  with  the 
medical  profession.  In  I7o2,he  married  Ki.-zai  t  th,  daugh- 
ter of  William  lord  Forbes  ;  a  young  lady  who,  to  the  ex- 
terior endowments  of  great  beam  'gaging  man<l1  rs» 
joined  a  very  superior  understanding,  and  an  uncommon 
sh«i»e  of  wit.  Dining  the  whole  p-  riod  of  their  union, 
which  was  but  nine  years,  he  enjoyed  the  highest  portion 
Of  domestic  happiness. 

Dr.  (ire gory,  soon  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  and,  as 
he  himself  says,  "  for  the  amusement  ot  his  solitary  hours,'* 
employed  himself  in  the  composition  ot  that  admirable 
tract,  entitled,  "A  Father's  legacy  to  his  Daughters." 
This  work  is  a  most  amiable  display  of  the  pu  ty  and  j>,ood- 
ness  ot  his  heait;  and  his  <.onsumm;Ur  knowledge  ot  hu- 
man nature  and  ot  the  world.  He  j;tib!ished  r.lso,  u  A  com- 
parative View  of  the  S:  •}  an  and  other  Anim  ti.s." 
13  sides  his  moral  writing.*,  ;  \viih  great  abiiiu  in 
the  line  of  his  profession. —  i  his  excellent  man  died  sud- 
denly in  the  year  1773. 

HARRIS,  James — im  English  n  of  ver\  UP 

mon  parts  and  learning,  was  boin  at  Salisbury,  in  i  7O9. 
Aft'-r  his  grammatical  education,  he  was  icmoved  in  1726, 
to  Wadham  college  in  Oxiord,  but  took  no  he 

however  cultivated  letters  most  attentu  ly  ;  and  in  the  liie- 
orv  and  practice  of  music,  he  had  few  equals.  In  1703,  he 
was  appointed  one  of  the  loids  commissioners  of  the  ad- 
miralty. In  1774,  he  was  m  -  and  comptroller 
to  the  queen  ;  which  till  his  death  :  he  died  in 
178'),  after  a  long  illness,  which  he  bore  with  calmness  and 
jesignat: 

He  is  the  author  of  sever  il  \  -Uu?>le  works.  1.  u  Three 
treatises  concerning  Art;  Music,  Fainting,  and  Poetry; 
and  Happiness.  2.  u  Philosophical  Arrangements.  '  3, 
"  Philological  Inquireis."  4.  4  Hermes;  or,  a  Philosophi- 
eal  Inquiry  concerning  Universal  Granwnar."  Oi  this  work 
bishop  Lowth  speaks  "very  highlv  ;  nd  adds,  u  I  his  is  the 
most  beautiful  and  perfect  i-xamph  of  analysis,  that  has 
been  exhibited  since  the  days  of  Aristotle, 

HAWKESWORTH,  John. — a  celebrated  English  wn  er, 
\vas  born  in  1715  He  was  brought  up  to  a  mechanical  pro- 
j\  , -i  >n  ;  but  possessing  a  r  li  ••  •-.»  ta  te,  and  a  liv»-:lv  m.i.^i- 
nation,  he  chose  to  devote  nunseif  to  literature.  He  resi- 


273 

clecl  some  time  at  Bromley  in  Kent,  where  his  wife  kept  a 
bo.ir.il  :£>•  scivjoi.  A'  -ui  author,  his  k-  Adventurer"  is  his 
capital  work  ;  the  rm  .  its  ot  which  it  is  said,  procured  him 
the  Of  LL.  D.  from  Herring,  archbishop  of  Cant  r- 

bury.  He  compiled  fcfc  A  Narrative  of  the  Discoveries  in 
|he  South  Sens  ;'*  and  it  is  said  he  received  for  it  tru.-  r  nor- 
tnous  sunn  of  six  thousand  poumis.  The  performance  (iicl 
not  however  satisiv  the  public.  The  province  of  Hawk<  s- 
worth  was  works  of  taste  and  elegance,  where  imagination 
and  the  passions  were  to  be  affected  ;  not  works  of  dry, 
cold,  accurate  narrative. 

In  1773  he  died  ;  some  say  ot  chagrin  from  the  ill  re- 
ception of  his  "  Narrative  ;"  for  he  was  a  man  ol  the 
keenest  sensibility,  and  obnoxious  to  all  the  evils  of  that 
unhappy  temperament 

In  the  last  number  of  "  The  Adventurer,"  are  the  fol- 
lowing pathetic  admonitions:  a  The  hour  is  hasting,  in 
which  whatever  praise  or  censure  I  have  acquired,  will  be 
remembered  with  equal  indifference.  Time,  who  is  impa- 
tient to  date  my  last  paper,  will  shortly  mou;der,  in  the 
dust,  the  hand  which  is  now  writing  it;  and  still  the  breast 
that  now  throbs  at  the  reflection.  But  let  not  this  be  read, 
as  something  that  relates  only  to  another:  for  a  few  years 
only  can  divide  the  eye  that  is  now  reading,  from  the  hand 
th.'t  has  written." 

HERVFY,  James — a  pious  and-  ingenious  English  divine, 
was  born  at  Hardingstone,  in  Northamptonshire,  in  1714. 
Af;er  he  had  received  his  academical  education  at  North- 
ampton, he  was  removed  to  Lincoln  college,  Oxford,  wrhere 
he  was  distinguished  tor  his  classical  attainments,  and  the 
seriousness  of  his  deportment.  '  He  succeeded  his  father  in 
the  living  of  Weston  Favtll  and  Coliingtree  ;  and  diligent- 
ly pursued  his  studies,  and  the  labours  of  the  ministry,  un- 
der the  disadvantage  of  a  weak  constitution. 

In  1746,  he  published  his  u  Meditations  among  the 
Tombs,  and  Reflections  on  a  Flower  Garden ;"  and  the  fol- 
lowing year  appeared  the  u  Contemplations  on  the  Night 
and  Starry  heavens;  and  a  Winter  Piece."  The  sublime 
sentiments  in  thes.  pi-.-ces,  are  conveyed  in  a  flowing  and 
elegant  style.  The  language  has,  however,  been  deemed 
to  j  flowery  and  rather  too  elevated.  These  public  \ -  ns 
have  been  much  read,  and  have  often  cherished  pious  and 


274  APPENDIX. 

gr.teful  emotions  towards  the  Author  of  all  good.   In  17j;> 
c;i.ne  out  iiis    kk  i'h«:ron  and  A^pasio  ;   01 ,  a  S,  i  u  *  of  , 
lo£ii<  s  and  L-tters  on  thr  mi-si  important  subjects."     i  nis 
work  has   had  many  admirers,  and   some  opposers.      The 
D. -logucs   ai  eraih    introduced   with   deseiipiions   of 

som     of  th<    mosv  \[  scents  of  the  creation. 

A.S  his  works   had   *  yrr.it  sale,  his  profits  \ve-u-    large  ; 
but  he  applied   the  whole-  of  tht  in   to  chaiitabu    purposes. 
His  chanty  uas  indeed,   \<:y  « e  m.irk:»l>le.      it  was   ah\ 
his  -J.sire  to  elk- just  even  with  the  world,  and  l<>  IK,  as  iie 
called   it,  his  ow*i  txecnr  ,  truly  good  man  dud  in 

thv.  winter  of  1758,  leaving  tlu-  little  he  possessed,  10   pur- 
chase  warm  clothing  : 

HOME,  Henry,  lord  Kames — an  eminent  Stotiish  law- 
yer, and  author  of  m  .  d  works  on  \  nb- 
jects,  was  born  in  the  )'ear  1(>9().  In  early  youth  he  was 
lively,  and  eager  in  the  acquisition  uf  knowledge  :  he  never 
attended  a  public  school ;  but  was  instructed  in  the  ancient 
and  modern  languages,  as  \vell  as  in  several  branches  of 
the  mathematics,  by  a  private  tutor,  who  continued  to  be 
his  preceptor  f«..r  :  ars.. 

He  was  long  an  ornament  to  the  Scottish  bar;  and  in 
47,52)  v  i,cd  to  the  beach,  as  one  of  the  judges  of 

the  court  of  session,  under  the  title  of  lord  Kames. 

He  wrote  several  tracts  respecting  law  and  equity,  which 
exhibit  marks  of  great  penetration  and  profound  know- 
ledge. Several  of  his  publications  also  show  that  he  was 
distinguished  for  his  taste  in  polite  literature.  It  is  observ- 
ed by  a  late  celebrated  author,  that,  "  to  read,  write,  and 
converse,  in  due  proportions,  is  the  business  of  a  man  of 
letters ;  and  that  he  who  hopes  to  look  back  hereafter  with 
satisfaction  upon  past  years,  must  learn  to  know  the  value 
of  single  minutes,  and  endeavour  to  let  no  particle  of  time 
fall  useless  to  the  ground."  By  practising  these  lessons, 
lord  Kames  rose  to  literary  eminence,  in  opposition  to  all 
the  obstacles,  which  the  tumult  of  public  business  could 
place  in  his  way. — -In  the  year  1782  he  died,  honoured  and 
regretted,  of  debility  resulting  from  extreme  old  age. 

Lord  Karnes's  u  Elements  of  Criticism,"  3  vols.  octavo, 
show  that  the  art  of  criticism  is  founded  on  the  principles 
of  human  nature.  It  is  not  only  a  highly  instructive,  but 
an  entertaining  work.  His  "  Sketches  of  the  history  of 


APPENDIX.  275 

Man,"  contain  much  useful  information,  and  are  lively  and 


HooKf  ,  Nuihauiel  —  celebrated  for  a  kt  Roman  history," 
extending  from  the  ioundati<>n  <  i  the  city  to  the  ruin  of  the 
commonwealth,  died  in  1764,  but  the  time  of  his  birth  can- 
not be  ascertained,  B\  the  recommendation  ot  the  earl  of 
Ghesterfieid,  he  was  employed  by  the  duchess  ot  Marino- 
rough  to  digest  "  An  account  of  the  conduct  of  the  dowa- 
ger-- iuchess  of  Mariborough,  from  her  first  coming  to 
court  to  the  year  1710  :"  he  executed  this  work  in.  so  mas- 
terly a  m  '-inner,  and  so  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
ducihss,  that  she  complimented  the  author  with  a  present 
oi  five  thousand  pounds. 

in  1723  he  translat-  d  jVom  the  French,  u  A  history  of 
the  Life  of  the  late  Archbishop  of  Cambray  :"  and  soon 
afu*r  published  a  translation  oi  Ramsay's  Travels  of  Cy- 
rus.  lit-  was  concerned  in  several  other  works,  which  con- 
tributed to  support  his  literary  reputation  ;  and  he  long  en- 
•jovtd  the  confidence  and  patronage  ot  men,  not  less  distin- 
guished by  virtue  than  by  tides. 

HORNC.  George  —  bishop  of  Norwich,  was  born  in  173G, 
at  Oiham,  near  M.-idstone,  in  Kent.  At  the  age  of  fifteen 
he  removed  from  Maidstone  school  to  University  college, 
Oxford.  At  college  his  studies  were  in  general,  the  same 
as  those  of  other  virtuous  and  ingenious  youths;  while  the 
vivacity  of  his  conversation,  and  the  propriety  of  his  con- 
duct, endeared  him  to  all  whose  regard  was  creditable.  In 
1753,  he  entered  into  orders,  and  was  soon  distinguished 
as  an  excellent  preach*  r  :  he  appeared  also  as  an  acute  wri- 
ter, particularly  in  controversy.  After  several  preferments 
and  honours,  he  was  appointed  bishop  of  Norwich  :  but  his 
infirmities  were  then  very  great.  As  he  entered  the  palace, 
he  said,  "  I  am  come  to  these  steps  at  a  time  of  life,  when 
I  can  neither  go  up  them  nor  down  them  with  safety."  In 
1792  he  died  at  Bath,  full  of  faiih  and  hope.  It  seldom 
falls  to  the  lot  of  the  biographer,  to  record  a  man  so  blame- 
less in  character  and  conduct  as  bishop  Home.  Whatever 
might  be  his  peculiar  opinions  on  some  points,  he  was  un- 
doubtedly a  sincere  andi  exemplary  Christian. 

His  writings  are  numerous  and  valuable.  We  shall  only 
•niention,  u  Considerations  on  the  life  and  death  of  St.  John 
the  Baptist  ;"  "  A  Commentary  on  the  Psalms  $"  " 


APPLNDiX. 

volumes  of  Sermons  on  several  subjects  and  occasions  ;"' 
u  A  Letter  to  Adam  Smith,  LL.  D.  on  the  Life,  Death, 
and  Philosophy,  of  David  Hume  ;"  u  A  Lttter  to  Doctor 
Priestley,  by  an  Undergraduate." 

HUME,  David,- — a  celebrated  philosopher  and  historian, 
was  born  in  Scotland,  in  the  year  1711.  He  possessed  shin- 
ing talents,  which  were  greatly  improved  by  education,  stu- 
dy >  and  observation  of  the  world.  The  desire  of  literary 
fame  was  his  ruling  passion  :  but  his  endeavours  to  accom- 
plish this  object,  were,  at  first,  and  for  a  long  time,  unsjic- 
cessful.  Even  his  history  of  Britain  under  the  house  of 
Stuart,  (which  afterwards  formed  a  part  of  his  great  work 
the  history  of  England,)  was  on  its  publication,  almost  uni- 
versally decried.  He  felt  this  disappointment  very  keenly, 
and  his  spirits  were  so  much  sunk  by  it,  that  he  formed  the 
resolution  of  retiring  to  France,  changing  his  name,  and 
bidding  adieu  to  his  own  country  for  ever.  13ut  his  design 
was  frustrated,  by  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  of  1  755,  be- 
tween France  and  England. 

He  wrote  several  Treatises,  of  a  moral,  philosophical, 
and  political  nature  ;  the  merits  of  which  have  been  vari- 
ously appreciated.  But  the  work  for  which  he  has  been  most 
deservedly  celebrated,  is  the  "  history  of  England,  Jkc." 
He  may,  with  great  propriety,  be  styled  a  profound  and  el- 
egant historian.  \VY  find,  however,  even  in  this  history, 
some  scepticism  on  the  subject  of  r  ligiou,  and  sentiments, 
not  friendly  to  Christianity  It  is  to  be  lanu  nted  that  so 
fine  a  writer  as  Hume,  whose  works  are  so  extensively  cir- 
culated, had  not  satisfied  his  mind  of  the  truth  of  Christi- 
anity ;  and  ranged  himself  among  the  advocates  of  a  reli- 
gT«>n,  which  is  completely  adapted  to  the  condition  of  man 
in  this  life,  and  whkh  opens  to  him  the  sublimest  views  of 
happiness  hereafter. 

Dr  Bt:uttit:,  a  zealous  and  enlightened  philosopher  and 
chrittian.  on  reviewing  t&e  philosophical  writings  of  Hume, 
expresses  his  regret  and  surprise  in  the  following  terms. 
w  That  he  whose  manners  in  private  life  arc  said  to  be  so 
enable  to  manv  of  his  acquaintance,  should  yet,  in  the 
public  capacity  of  an  author,  have  given  so  much  caus^  of 
just  offmce  to  all  the  friends  of  virtue  and  mankind,  is  to 
me  matter  of  astonishment  and  sorrow.  That  he,  who  suc- 
ceeds so  well  in  describing  the  fates  of  nations,  should 


APPENDIX.  2/-> 

have  failed  so  egregiously  in  explaining  the  operations  of 
the  mind,  is  one  of  those  incongruities  in  human  genius, 
for  which  perhaps  philosophy  will  never  be  able  fully  to  ac- 
count. That  he,  who  hath  so  impartially  stated  the  opposite 
pleas  and  principles  of  our  political  factions,  should  yet  have 
adopted  the  most  illiberal  prejudices  against  natural  and 
revealed  religion  ;  that  her,  who  on  some  occasions  hath 
displayed  even  a  profound  erudition,  should,  at  other  times, 
when  intoxicated  with  a  favourite  theory,  have  suffered  af- 
firmations to  escape  him,  which  would  have  fixed  the  op- 
probrious name  of  Sciolist  on  a  less  celebrated  author;  and  , 
finally,  that  a  moral  philosopher,  who  seems  to  have  exert- 
ed his  utmost  ingenuity  in  searching  after  paradoxes,  should 
yet  happen  to  light  on  none,  but  such  as  are  all,  without 
exception,  on  the  side  of  licentiousness  and  scepticism  : 
these"  are  inconsistencies  perhaps  equally  inexplicable,  iiis 
philosophy  hath  done  great  harm.  Its  admirers  1  know  are 
very  numerous  ;  but  I  have  not  as  yet  met  with  one  person, 
who  both  admired  and  und«TS<ood;  it.''* 

Hume  was  a  man  of  mild  dispositions,  of  command  of 
temper,  and  of  an  open,  social,  and  cheerful  humour  ;  ca- 
pable of  attachment,  but  little  Susceptible  of  enmity,  and  of 
great  moderation  in  all  his  passions. 

In  the  spring  of  1/75,  he  was  affected  with  a  disorder 
in  his  bowels,  which,  though  it  gave  him  no  alarm  at  first, 
proved  incurable,  and  at  length  mortal.  It  appears,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  not  painful,  nor  even  troublesome  or  fa- 
tiguing. The  natural  evenness  and  tranquillity  ot  his  tem- 
per, enabled  him  to  bear  the  gradual  decay  of  his  bodily 
powers,  with  remarkable  c  /.nposure.  He  died  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1776,  and  was  interred  at  Edinburgh,  where  a  mo- 
nument was  erected  to  his  memory. 

JAGO  Richard, — an  English  port,  was-born  in  Warwick- 
shire in  1715.  He  was  educated  at  University  coll,  ge,  Ox- 
ford ;  and  entered  into  orders,  in  fc737.  The  poet  Shen- 
stont  was  his  particular  friend,  by  whom  he  was  introduc- 
ed to  persons  of  merit  and  distinction. 

Whilst  he  was  engaged  ia  the  duties  of  his  profession  as 
a  country  clergyman,  which  he  performed  with  rxtmpl-ry 

*  Beattie's  Essay  on  the  immutability  of  Truth.  The  Preface.— 
See  a  Letter  to  Adam  Smith,  L  L.  D.  on  the  Lif<  ,  Death,  and  Philoso- 
phy of  Diwid  Hume.  By  Dr.  Home,. Bishop  of  Norwich, 


r(  1\. 

:icc,  lie  found                                             ilv  propensity 

t  .  «ie- 
scripthe    poem,   entitled    w                              Thi 

hiir  oi    1)>  nh.nn,  th»-  "  (>  nil" 

of  Dver,  an  .  ho 

his 
tiie 

u  $  \valln\\  s;"  ar  (1    hv    ai. 

and    tender    S  ,ich 

jusih   entitle  bun  i»  J.!K-  exclusive  tlisiinci:  lk  i^ott 
oi  the  B 

As  a  (L-scrii'                  ,  •'  i ma- 
gi ji  . 

In    ^  .uui 

in    1781,  in  {  \  ear 

styl-.  (1  thr  Li 
S  ho/r.  ;a   Lirh(i(  i.1  in 
S,  in  r,  u  ho   u  ;is   u 

:.       Hi-  «  .  :;iarks  o! 

S«"  .  !-.l«-ni.iily 

fa- 
h'uu  in  t;  i  liter, tiure. 

M.'Cl 

I-;  •  hib  snuli-.-s  -inii  ii  Ijo 

in     ',-);.  a  religion  is 

true  i  aiui  wluc  <l,  he  c\cr  afct-r\v  u-a- 

voi;  :i'jh.   Grotiu84b  excellent, book   u  Or,  the  Truth 

of  i  stiaa   Religion/'.tvas  very   useful  in  rem-'Ving 

his  doubts,  :«nd  establishing  his  be! 

;  728,  he  was  entered  as  a  commoner  at  Pembroke 
coll  ><;<  ,  Oxford.  Dr.  Adam  said  of  him, 4t  that  he  was  the 
be^t  qu  -Lfird  young  man  that  he  ever  remembered  to  have 
s  n  .1  mitted  :"  here  he  produced  a  fine  Latin  Version  of 
.iiah.  Pope  re;:ci  the  translation,  and  n  turned 
it  with  this  encomium  ;  u  The  writer  oi  this  poem  will  leave 
it  u  qiKSti<-n,  for  posterity,  whether  his  or  mine  be  the  ori- 
^  "  F;om  his  father's  insolvency,  and  the  scantiness  of 
his  finances,  he  was  obliged  to  leave  Oxford  before  he  had 
completed  the  usual  studies,  and  without  a  dtgree* 


APPFNDIX.  279 

From  the  university,  ru  returned  to  Lien  field,  with  little 
itr-  >! ov<  nu-nt  of  his  prospects  ;  and  oon  ait  r  engaged  as 
usiirr  in  a  school  in  Leicestershire.  But  being  unkindly 
treated  bv  the  patron  of  the  school,  he  Kit  it,  after  a  f<  w 
m  nubs,  in  disgust.  In  1735  he  married  a  widow  of  Bir- 
mingham, much  older  than  himself,  and  not  very  engaging 
in  person  or  manners.  She  was  possessed  of  £GO  1.  ;  v  hich 
enabled  him  to  fit  up  a  house  and  op  :dctny.  But 

this  plan  also  fail<  d  for  want  of  ^ncoura«c-ment  :  he  obtain- 
ed only  three  scholars,  one  of  whom  \vns- the  celebrated 
D  -.vid  Garrick.  In  1/37  hr  settl  d  in  London,.,  where,  for 
several  years,  he  J.^nv-d  his  principal  employment  and 
support,  bv  writing  for  the  Gvntl-man's  M-i^azme. 

la  1738,  he  published  his  ifc  London,"  an  admirable  po- 
em, which  laid  the  foundation  of  his  fame.  It  contains  the 
most  spirited  invectives  against  tyranny  and  oppression, 
the  warmest  prtciileciion  for  his  o\vn  country,  and  the  pur- 
est love  of  virtue. -In  1744,  appeared  his  u  Life  of  Savage.'* 
The  narrative  is  remarkably  smooth  and  well  disposed,  the 
observations  are  just,  and  the  reflections  disclose  the  inmost 
recesses  of  the  human  heart.— u  The  vanity  of  Human 
Wishes,"  was  produced  in  1749.  It  contains  profound  re- 
flections :  and  the  various  instances  of  disappointment,  are 
judiciously  chosen,  and  strongly  painted. — vl  The  Rambler" 
came  out  in  175O.  In  this  work,  Johnson  is  the  great  mo- 
ral teacher  of  his  countrymen  :  his  essays  form  a  body  of 
ethics  :  the  observations  on  life  and  manners,  are  acute  and 
instructive  :  and  the  papers,  professedly  critical,  serve  to 
promote  the  cause  of  literature.  Every  page  shows  a  mind 
teeming  with  classical  allusion,  and  poetical  imagery. — In 
1 755  he  published  his  grand  work  the  "Dictionary  of  the  En- 
glish Language."  This  performance  may  properly  be  called 
the  Mount  Atlas  of  English  literature.  The  labour  of  form- 
ing it  was  immense  ;  and  the  definitions  exhibit  Astonishing 
proofs  of  acuteness  of  intellect,  and  precision  of  language. 
— His  u  Lives  of  the  English  Poets'*  were  completed  in 
1781.  This  is  an  eminently  valuable  work.  His  judgment, 
taste,  quickness  in  the  discrimination  of  motives,  and  his 
happy  art  of  giving  to  well  known  incidents  the  grace  of 
novelty,  and  the  force  of  instruction,  shine  strongly  in  these 
narratives.  Sometimes,  however,  his  colourings  receive  a 
tinge  from  prejudice,  and  his  judgment  is  insensibly  war 


APPENDIX. 

Cd    !'.  :OtC 

also  *T 

I 
an-! 

I  •.  i : 

. 

tills 

L\\  .  J 

born  in  \ 
cert 

h<-  i' 

the;  .       I  his 

p'h-ie   m 

Lj  Uelt<  J  merit, 

Lun  'duc- 

•ns 
of  1 

.  I    k*  A   Tr.n 
Tbi 

• 

ins- 
tr  v,"  wthich  -^l^ 

\  ,  and  humnnjty.      lv. 
time  h^  lK-:;hh  :  i;  aiul  iie  died  in  17/ 

L.inithorn  %  private-  i 

ami  ;. — As  a  poet,  his  scntmu 

ticns  art  I  ;  his  descriptive  i 

show  a  luxiiriaiU   imn^ini.tion  ;    and    his   1\  ric   pieces    teem 
\viih  the 

LOGAN,  a  Scottish  uivine  and  poet.  rn  in 

^  the  county  oi   Aiid  Lothian,  about  the  ycur   1748.     Alter 


APPENDIX.  281 

passing  through  the  usual  course  of  school  education  in  the 
country,  he  was  svnt  to  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  where 
he  completed  his  classical  education,  and  afterwards  ap- 
plied with  success  to  the  several  branches  of  philosophy 
and  theology.  In  1779,  he  delivered  a  series  of  If  ctures  oa 
the  "  Philosophy  of  History  ;"  and  was  gratified  with  the 
approbation  and  friendship  of  Dr.  Robertson,  Dr.  Blair, 
Dr.  Ferguson,  and  other  mt-n  of  genius  and  learning. 

In  1781,  he  published  "  Elements  of  the  Philosophy  of 
History.'1  This  work  displays  deep  penetration,  compre- 
hensive views,  and  animated  composition.  The  same  year, 
he  published  a  volume  of  poems  ;  in  which  he  reprinted, 
with  some  alterations,  the  "  Ode  to  the  Cuckoo."  This 
ode  is  highly  distinguished  by  the  delicate  graces  of  sim- 
plicity and  tenderness. 

After  a  lingering  indisposition  he  died  in  London,  in 
1788,  in  the  4Oth  year  of  his  age. 

In  1790,  a  volume  of  u  Sermons,9'  selected  from  his 
manuscripts,  was  published  at  Edinburgh,  under  the  sup  r- 
intendence  of  Dr.  Blair,  Dr.  Robertson,  and  Dr.  Hardy, 
professor  of  ecclesiastical  history  in  the  university. — His 
sermons,  though  not  so  highly  polished  as  those  of  Dr. 
Blair,  have  been  thought  to  possess,  in  a  greater  degree, 
the  animated  and  passionate  eloquence  of  Massillon  and 
Atterburr. 

LYTTELTON,  George — a  nobleman  of  literary  eminence, 
was  born  in  1709:  he  received  the  rudiments  of  education 
at  Eton  school,  where  he  was  so  much  distinguished,  thafc. 
his  exercises  were  recommended  as  mods-Is  to  his  school- 
fellows. From  Eton  he  went  to  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 
where  he  retained  the  same  reputation  of  superiority  :  here 
he  wrote  several  of  his  pastorals  ,  and  sketched  the  plan  of 
his  Persian  Letters. 

In  the  year  1728,  he  set  out  on  the  tour  of  Europe :  his 
conduct  while  on  his  travels,  was  a  lesson  of  instruction  to 
the  rest  of  his  countrymen.  Instead  of  lounging  away  his 
hours  at  the  coffee  houses  frequented  by  the  English,  and 
adopting  the  fashionable  follies  and  vices  of  France  and 
Italy,  his  time  was  passed  alternately  in  his  library,  and  in 
the  society  of  men  of  rank  and  literature.  .On  his  return  to 
ngland^,  he  obtained  a  seat  in  p -jrh '<r>ent ;  .wl  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  patriotic  exertions  :  he  afterward? 


IX. 

filled,  with  gr«-at  reputati  ;1  high  offices  in  the  si 

was  en  a  -s  patent,  a  prt  r  01  ( rtt  -t  Brit, tin. 

In  politics  and   public  li:e,   he  made  t'  :  ,d  good  the 

ml-    ol    his  conduct:    :.,  .,/s  in  parliament  exhibit 

sound  j  powerful   rl>quence,  ant!   inflexible   inte- 

grity.     In  •  Lucy,  the  d 'ughter  ot   Hugh 

This  ladv's  c  \< -uplary  conduct,  an  uni- 
iorm  practice  of  religion  and  virtue,  plaet-d  his  conjugal 
happiness  on  the  most  prom!  .  Hut  in  th<  course 

of  four  year  vcelient  wom-n   died,  in  the  i>9th  \t_ar 

of  hvr  ap;e.      J.ord    L\ttelton,   on  th  ,nt, 

wrote  a    .Monody,  which  will  njugal  a<> 

tion,  and  a  t  t^u-  |V.|-  ,  --'juntry- 

In  1747,   he  !.,-d   ki  Dssst-rtation  on 

the  Conversion  of  St.  Paul;''  a  treatise   to  which  ininUlity 
has  ru-ver  hrcn  able-  to  fabricate  a  .    ! 

he  published  his  lk  Dialogues  of  tru  Dead  ;"  in  which  the 
morality  of  Fenelon,  and  the  spirit  of  Fontenelle,  are  hap- 
pily united  :  his  production  \\MS  the  a  his; 
of  Henry  the  S  i  1  tbour  of  twtnty  years.  This 
work  is  justly  ranked  among  the  most  valuable  historical 
performances  in  the  English  language.  It  is  executed  with 
great  fidelity.  I  I  i  unaflVued,  ge- 
nerally correct,  and  (  mt  and  master!}  The  senti- 
ments and  remarks  are  judicious  and  pertinent  ;  liberal 
with  respect  to  religion,  and  friendly  to  the  cause  oi  liber- 
ty and  the  rights  of  mankind. 

During  the  last  ten  years  of  lord  Lyttelton,  he  lived 
chiefly  in  retirement,  in  the  continual  exercise  of  all  the 
virtues  which  can  ennoble  private  life. — In  the  summer  of 
1/T3,  he  was  suddenlv  seized  with  an  inflammation  of  the 
bowels,  which  soon  terminated  in  death  :  his  last  moments 
were  attended  with  unimpaired  understanding,  unaffected 
greatness  of  mind,  calm  resignation,  and  humble  but  confi-  s 
dent  hopes  in  the  mercy  of  God.  As  he  had  lived  univer- 
sally esteemed,  he  died  lamented  by  all  parties. 

MELMOTH,  William — was  born  in  171O:  his  father  was 
a  bencher  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  the  author  of  that  excel-  H 
lent  treatise,  entitled,  u  The  Great  Importance  of  a  Reli- 
gious Life."  The  present  subject  of  our  biographical 
sketch,  was  the  author  of  the  elegant  classical  letters,  which 
bear  the  name  of  Sir  Thomas  Fitzosborne  :  he  wrote,  also 


APPENDIX.  £80 

Memoirs  of  his  Father;  and  published  admirable  transla- 
tions of  [Tmy's  and  Cicero's  Epistles.  In  1799  he  died. 

MERRICK,  James — an  ingenious  poet,  was  born  about 
the  ye,*r  1718  :  he  was  educated  at  Trinitv  college,  Oxford; 
where  he  took  his  degrees  in  arts,  and  was  elected  fellow: 
he  published  "  Poems  on  Sacred  Subjects,"  and  "  A  Trans- 
lation of  Tryphiodorus,"  a  Grt  ek  poet  who  wrote  a  poem 
on  the  destruction  of  Troy :  but  the  work  by  which  he  is 
most  known  is,  u  The  Psalms  translated  or  paraphrased. " 
This  is  the  best  poetical  English  version  of  the  psalms  now 
extant :  his  tk  Annotations  on  the  Psalms,"  are  very  learn- 
ed and  judicious.  They  are  interspersed  with  many  valu- 
able notes  by  the  late  archbishop  Seeker. 

Merrick  died  at  Reading  in  1769:  his  character  is  fair 
and  respectable. 

MILTON,  John — the  most  illustrious  of  the  English  po- 
ets, was  descended  from  an  ancient  family  at  Milton  near 
Oxford :  he  was  born  in  London,  in  the  year  1608,  and  re- 
ceived the  first  rudiments  of  education  under  the  care  of 
his  parents,  assisted  by  a  private  tutor.  For  this  tutor  he 
felt  a  grateful  regard  ;  and,  during  several  years,  held  a«t 
affectionate  correspondence  with  him  :  he  was  afterwards 
placed  at  St.  Paul's  school,  where  he  applied  so  intensely 
to  books,  that  he  hurt  his  constitution,  which  naturally  was 
not  strong  :  for,  from  his  twelfth  year,  he  generally  sat  up 
half  the  night  at  his  studies.  This  practice,  with  his  fre- 
quent heaclachs,  is  supposed  to  have  occasioned  the  first 
injury  to  his  eyes.  From  St.  Paul's  school,  he  went  to 
Cambridge,  where  he  took  his  degrees  in  the  arts  :  he  was 
designed  for  the  clerical  office  ;  but  not  having  much  incli- 
nation for  that  profession,  he  declined  it. 

From  1632  to  1637  he  resided  at  his  father's  house  io, 
Buckinghamshire  ;  where  he  enriched  his  mind  with  the 
choicest  stores  of  Grecian  and  Roman  learning:  here  he 
wrote  his  FAflegro\  II  Penseroso,  and  Lycidas^  pieces  which 
alone  would  have  acquired  for  him  a  high  literary  fame. 

In  1638,  he  travelled  into  France  and  Italy  ;  where  he 
was  treated  with  singular  respect  and  kindness,  by  persons 
©f  the  first  eminence,  both  for  rank  and  learning.  On  his 
return  to  England,  he  settled  in  London  ;  and  kept  a  semi- 
nary for  the  education  of  a  few  children,  seas  of  gentlemen. 


II" 

! 

P      U 

. 

, 
' 

.     It 

ith  the  ;  i>t  <'f  j 

i-rai   \vas  spl 
ttended. 

MOORE,  Edward, — v.-  ^ingclon,  in  I* 

in  the  \<  ->  p  r^onal  history,  the 

rdefl  by  ms  '  '.re  insufTuient  to  uri-    j 

His  reputarion  at\;ony:  tin    pe- 
jrio  .iral 

ilis  lather  dyin£  when  he  was  ubout  ten  years  oiu,  the 


28$ 

direction  of  his  education   was  kindly  undertaken  by  his 

u  -r.       With   him    he  spent  some  year-  ok"  ! 
his  early  IdV,  and  was  then  removed  to  the  school  ot    Kast 
Orchard,  in  Dorsetshire. 

His  ori;»;innl  destination  appears  to  have  been  trade  ;  and 
at  a  propel  age,  he  was  placed  with  a  wholesale  linendrapeV 
in  London.  Bat  his  taste  not  corresponding  with  the  views 
oi  his  friends,  he  relinquished  the  business  to.  which  he  was 
bred,  b^r:i»ne  a  candidate  for  tame,  and  attached  himseli  to 
the  muses.  In  1744,  he  courted  public  attention  by  pro- 
ducing his  first  performance  entitle  1,  c*  Fables  ior  the  Fe- 
male Sf-x  ;"  which  was  fnvouraMv  rec  ived.  I*  1753,  be 
began  a  periodical  paper,  called  %wThr  \Vori\bv  Ad.ra 
Fitz-Adam,"  whi,  h  he  carried  on  in  weekly  numbers  ior 
four  years.  The  design,  as  he  explains  it  in  the  first  num- 
ber, "  was  to  ridicule,  with  nov-  lu  and  good  humour,  the 
fashions,  follies.  vie<-s,  and  absurdities,  of  that  part  of  the 
human  species,  which  we  call  the  World  ;  and  to  trace  it 
through  all  its  business,  pleasures,  and  amusements."  The 
wits  of  the  age  were  invited  to  join  in  it,  and  they  ^ave  it 
their  assistance.  The  demand  for  this  work  greatly  excted- 
ed  expectation  ;  and,  during  its  appearance,  it  was  the  only 
fashionable  vehicle,  in  which  men  of  rank  and  genius  chose 
to  convev  their  sentiments  to  tin  public. 

1 1  is  to  be  lamented  that  this  resp  crable  person  did  not 
acquire  the  means  of  a  comfortable  subsistence.  All  his  ex- 
ertions were  barely  sufficient  to  ward  off  the  in  onv  eniences 
of  poverty.*  He  died  in  1757,  in  the  45th.  year  of  his  age. 

The  character  of  Moore  was  truly  amiable  and  estima- 
ble. He  had  a  peculiar  swt-einess  of  temper,  and  was  a 
most  entertaining  and  cheerful  companion.  Tee  simplicity 
of  his  manners  much  endeared  him  to  all  his  acquaintances, 
and  made  them  always  speak  of  him  with  particular  regard. 
From  the  names  of  his  coadjutors  in  the  World,  and  of  the 
persons  to  whom  his  several  pieces  are  addressed,  it  ap- 
pt-ars  that  he  was  honoured  with  the  trie  ndship  of  almost 
idl  his  cotemporanes,  who  were  themselves  remarkable  for 
talents  and  learni*  g. 

As  a  poet,  his  Compositions  a^e  characterized  by  a  refin- 
ed v'kgance  of  sentiment,  and  a  correspondent  happiness  of 
explosion.  But  his  greatest  recommendation,  is  tlu  puri- 
ty which  pervades  his  writings,  and  the  apparent  tendency 


APPENDIX. 

'Hem  to  promote  morality  and  virtue.      His  Fablcx,  the 

«t  pop.i!  works,  iii  ,m_ 

pos, -.ions  u\  th  i.;  om  tt,,c| 

i    the  moral, 

,  -road;  nearer  to 
of  tin  n  is  of 

uitiful   i 
n  imcjm- 
.. 
ire  of  human 

MURRAY,    Willum, — r.n-l    ..r    Mansfield-  ..  n    at 

Penh,  in  i;<  waa  lv.«pp;ly  rndowtd   1»\  aid 

haij/ilv  .  ,-mg 

several  d^iinj>i:;  ,  wan  in  17o(>,  m.ide  chi'  !  jus- 

of   th^  king's  Bench  :    hi*  t  l;iwy»-r,  an:,    tiis 

attachment  to  the  common  la\v  <,;  15  have  b^cn  va- 

2-iously  apn»  he  hiul  \v:i»-m  irii-iuS  and  Zi-alf-us  ; 

mies.  The.  addn  c  gentlemen  qf  tht   liar  to  him,  af- 

ter his  resignation  of  office,  is  an   honourable  tt-siimonv  to 
his  merit;   and  virtually  n-i'u1.-  mst 

him.      Lord  mansfit  1  ,  most  eloquent  spcakt-r  :    his 

eloquence    was    not,    indeed,  of  that   daring,   declamatory 
kind,  so  irresistibly  powerful   in   the   momentary  bust! 
popular  assemblies  ;   but  it  was  possessed  of   that  pure 
Attic  spirit,  and  seductive   power  of   persuasion,  that  de- 
light, instruct,  and  eventually  triumph. 

After  hav  ng  long  eminently  served  his  king  and  coun- 
try, he  perceived  the  infirmities  of  body  to  press  upon  himj 
and,  in  1788,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  resign  the  office  of 
chief  jus- ice,  and  to  retire  from  public  business.  From  this 
period,  his  bodily  powers  continued  to  decline  ;  and  in  1793 
he  died,  in  the  89th  year  of  his  age. 

The  last  will  of  lord  Mansfield  begins  with  the  follow- 
ing elegant  and  pious  paragraph,  with  which  we  shall  close 
our  sketch  of  him. 

u  When  it  shall  please  Almighty  God  to  call  me  to  that 
state,  to  which,  of  all  I  now  enjoy  I  can  carry  only  the  sa- 
tisfaction of  my  own  conscience,  and  a  full  reliance  upon 
his  mercy  through  Jesus  Christ,  I  desire  that  my  body 
may  be  interred  as  privately  as  may  be  ;  and  out  of  respect 
for  the  place  of  my  early  education,  I  should  wish  it  to  be 
In  Westminster  Abbey." 


APPENDIX. 

PARNELL,  Dr.  Thomas — a  well  known  poet,  contempe- 
rarv  wuh  POJK,  Suift,  &c.  was  bora  in  Dublin  in  1679. 
Wh.L-n  he  was  only  thirteen  years  old,  he  became  a  nn  MI- 
ber  of  Trinity  ColK  g< -,  Dublin  :  and  in  1700  was  admitted 
to  tlu-  d'-grrt"  o!'  vLmter  <>f  Arts.  About  three  years  after- 
wards, h-  ente:.  d  into  Priests  orders:  and,  about  the  Sitne 
time,  married  a  young  woman  of  gre.it  beauty  and  merit, 
About  the  year  1706,  h.  first  visited  England,  where  his 
friendship  was  very  generally  sought,  even  before  he  had 
distinguished  himseU  by  his  writings.  Pope  was  particu- 
lar! \  fond  of  his  company  ;  and  appears  to  h  ive  been  under 
so:n'-  obligations  to  him  in  his  translation  of  ilv  Iliad. 

Amidst  his  honours  and  expectations,  he  had  the  afflic- 
tion to  lose  his  amiable  wife,  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  his  mind.  They  h  ul  lived  together  in  great  Conju- 
gal felicity  :  his  grief  for  this  loss  induced  him  to  seek  re- 
lief in  society  ;  and  brought  on  habits  which  were  injurious 
to  his  health.  He  died  at  Chester,  in  h>s  way  to  Ireland, 
in  t.ht  -»9th  vear  of  his  ige. 

Parn  11  was  a  man  of  great  benevolence,  and  very  agree- 
able :n:i:wers:  his  conversation  is  said  to  have  been  ex- 
Uerriely  pleasing.  His  prose  writings  are,  his  papers  in  the 
.Spectator  and  Guardian,  his  Essay  on  Homer,  life  of  Zoi- 
_lus,  and  rrmarks  on  Zoilus.  In  general,  they  have  not  been 
thought  to  :lisplav  a  great  degree  oi  force  or  comprehen- 
sion of  mind: 'but  they  are  rich  in  imagery,  and  full  of 
learning,  good  sense,  and  knowledge  of  mankind.  Asa 
port,  he  is  not  distinguished  hy  strength  of  intellect,  or  fer- 
tilitv  of  invention.  His  taste  was  *'<  Lc.tU,  ;*nd  improved 
by  classical  study  ;  but  his  admiration  ol  the  ancen-'S  in, 
s^me  degree  precluded  originality  :  his  though  s,  without 
being  very  new,  are  just  and  pleasing.  The  images,  Chough 
not  great,  are  well  selected  and  happily  applied:  hi*  senti- 
mt:nts  are'natural  and  agreeable.  The  moral  tendency  of 
his  poems,  is  excellent ;  and  his  language  pure  and  correct. 
The  Wight  Piece  on  Death  deserves  every  praise,  it  is  ia- 
directh  preferred  by  Goldsmith  to  Gray's  "  EL-gv;"  but 
in  Dr.  Johnson's  opinion,  Gray  has  the  advantage,  in  dig.* 
nity,  variety,  and  originality  of  sentiment.  The  most  po«j 
pillar  ot  Parnell's  poems  has  always  been  his  Hermit^ 
which  is  certainly  conspicuous  for  piety  ei  desigUj  utili 
t>t'  moral,  and  elegance  of  de 


£88 


APPENDIX. 


PERCIVAL,  Thomas, — was  born  at  Warrington,  in  the 
year  1740.  His  education  commenced  at  a  private  school 
in  the  neighbourhood  ;  from  whence  he  was,  in  his  eleventh 
year,  transferred  to  the  Free  Grammar  School  of  Warring- 
ton,  in  which  hr  gave  striking  promise  of  talents  and  in- 
dustry. In  1757,  he  was  enrolled  the  first  student  of  the 
Warrington  Academy  :  and  after  prosecuting  his  studies 
there  with  diligence  and  reputation,  for  more  than  three 
years,  he  removed  to  the  University  of  Edinburgh  ;  in 
which  place,  he  employed  a  considerable  time,  in  close  ap- 
plication to  the  study  of  physic.  In  the  year  1764,  at  an 
unusually  early  period  of  life,  he  was  unanimously  elected 
Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  of  London. 

Having  passed  some  time  at  Paris,  Hamburgh,  and  va- 
rious other  places  on  the  Continent,  but  principally  at  Ley- 
den,  in  the  university  of  which  he  graduated,  he  returned 
to  England  in  the  year  1765.  The  theatre  of  his  profes- 
sional practice  then  became  the  object  of  his  serious  deli- 
berations :  and,  after  a  variety  of  plans  proposed  and  re- 
jected, his  choice  was  ultimately  directed  to  Manchester  ; 
in  which  town  he  settled  in  the  year  1767,  and  there  con- 
tinued till  his  death,  in  the  unremitting  exercises  of  his 
profession. 

His  merits  as  a  practitioner  of  physic,  and  the  benefits* 
conferred  by  him  on  medical  science,  were  vt-ry  distin- 
guished. A  quick  penetration,  a  discriminating  judgment, 
a  comprehensive  knowledge,  a  d  abovr  all,  a  sole  run  sense 
of  responsibility,  were  tru  endowments  which  fitted  him  at 
once  to  discharge  the  duties,  and  toextmd  tbr  boundaries, 
of  the  heali  g  :.rt.  His  external  accomplishments,  and  man- 
ners were  alike  happily  adapted  to  the  offices  of  his  ^roiV.s- 
su»n.  To  an  address  peculiarly  engaging,  from  its  uncom- 
mon mixture  of  dignitv,  respectfulness,  and  ease,  was  unit- 
ed a  i  avity  ot  deportment  that  bespoke  the  seriousness  of 
interest,  not  the  gl-.orn  of  apprehension.  The  expression  of 
a  i^Tinine,  vmpathy,  presented  him  likewise  the 

comforur  in  the  physician.  And  the  topics  of  encourage- 
ment and  consolation,  which  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  and 
the  ample  stores  ot  his  cultivated  mind,  abundantly  sup- 
^plL<.,  enabled  him  to  administer  relief  to  the  wounds  of  the 
epi)  -r,  with  no  less  efficacy  than  to  the  diseases  of  the  body. 

A»  *  literary  character.  Dr.  Percival  held  a  distinguish- 


APPENDIX,  289 

e*l  rank,  His  earlier  publications  were  devoted  to  inquiries 
extensively  medical  and  philosophical,,  mid  they  have  long 
obtained  for  their  author  high  and  deserved  reputation 
amongst  the  learned.  The  subjects  which  occupied  his  nm, 
in  later  years,  were  of  :i  nature  most  congenial  to  his  feel- 
ings. In  the  several  volumes  of  Fathers  Instruction*  and 

red  Dissertations )  which  were  originally  designed  to  ex- 
cite in  the  hearts  of  his  children  a  desire  of  knowledge  and 
a  love  of  virtue,  we  find  purity  of  stvle,  genuine  feeling,  re- 
nned  taste,  and  pious  reflections.  There  is  no  object  of 
higher  importance  than  tnat  which  the  author  held  in  view, 
the  intellectual,  moral,  and  religious  improvement  of  the 
rising  generation.  The  last  work  which  Dr.  Percival  pub- 
lished, the  u  Medical  Ethics,"  and  which  appeared  in  the 
year  1803,  is  alone  sufficient  to  establish  his  character,  as  a 
•wise,  good,  and  amiable  man.  This  most  valuable  treatise, 
which  he  expressly  dedicated,  as  a  u  paternal  legacy,'*  to  a 
much  loved  son,  may  now  be  regarded  ao  his  bequest  to 
his  brethren  of  the  faculty,  and  to  the  public.  It  is  indeed 
a  monument  of  professional  integrity  and  honour. 

In  social  discussion.  Dr.  Percivai  possessed  powers  of  a 
very  uncommon  stamp.  But  highly  as  he  was  to  be  admi- 
red and  loved  for  his  engaging  manners,  and  his  intellec- 
tual endowments,  these  sentiments  were  yet  more  forcibly 
exeite  by  the  qualities  which  dignified  and  embellished 
his  moral  nature..  Thtse  shed  Around  his  characu  r  that 
lustre  which  made  him  a  public  light.  He  was  solicitous  on 
all  occasions  to  rn-.<ki.'  the  Holy  Scriptures  the  interpreter 
and  the  test  of  religious  truth  ;  ana  he  had  imbibed,  irnrn 
the  stated  perusal  oi  the  sacred  volume,  an  enlightened  fa- 
rmlianty  with  the  great  vital  principles  of  Christianity. 

In  the  relations  of^husbano,  frit-rid,  and  parent,  he  was 
in  a  high  degree  exemplary.  The  endearments  with  which 
his  instructions  were  conveyed,  the  lenient  remonstrances 
with  which  youthful  errors  were  reproved,  the  tempered 
indulgence  with  which  the  reins  of  paterml  authority  were 
guided,  procured  for  him  from  his  children  their  fondest 
regard,  and  most  friendly  confidence. 

It  was  the  lot  of  this  virtuous  and  distinguished  person, 
to  experience  some  severely  afflicting  providences,  in  thati 
quarter  where  his  tend  crest  affections  were  engaged.      Bufj 
here  the  consolations  of  Christian  hope,  and  the  unshaken! 


290  APPLNDIX. 

res  of  Divine   g^ndm-ss,  were  his  refuge  and  sup- 

i •'!  in  resigned  submission  (o 

discipline  with  v  '    plcasm  to 

J""b  was  -ise 

anil  glorify  i  tuck  av/;iy  ;  he 

turned     will: 

in  stic  ^.v, 

and  whif'i  1.  is  thank i;  :sh 

and  imp  ,,f  hi*  life. — HC  died  in 

agci 

PHILIPS 
an  ;,*   .    ilc 

IV    . 

his  i 

at  t  iiiin  *  h:  ,cd 

tin 

.     iik- 

•vhich  is  sat 

:  cnarjo 

ILT  of  ihi 

In  1  TV)-.;  !!;•,•]  ll  A  W 

| 

•I.     S'i 

r.     iv  Ti-: 

-.n  car 

Is    truces  oi  n,  v,  hi,  h 

*   r  the  irk?  nl  cur."    Hope,  liirn- 

pit.ce  iron  the  general  censure  he 
pasK-j  i  on  Ph  1;  \s. 

Phil  also  tk  The  Life  of  Archbishop  Williams;'7 

c-v     a    -':,-ajnritir  piece*  ;  and  wa.--  ed  in  a  series 

*"  Free  Thinker  "   Ht  died  in  the  year 

17-J9.  ai   '    ;n   his  78th.   year.      He  appears  to  have  been  a 
^  man  of  integrity. 

:n, — one  of  the  most  illustrious  sUtesmen 
.ors  that  have  ever  appeared  in  the  world,  was  born 
!  70S      His  vigilance  and  sagacity  in   olfict,  were  only 
died  by  his  disinterestedness.     He  was  a  mobt  animat- 
ed  and   powerful   speaker  :    his   eloquence  often  shook  the 
•;.te,  and  echoed  through  the  kingdom.   This  great 


APPENDIX.  291 

ver]  the  public  confidence  to  a  degree  seldom,  or  never 
b.  s-.  d  by  any  statesman,  —  He  died  in  1778;  and 

a  nv.fr,umtnt  was  erected  in  Westminster  Abbey?  to  ni<  me- 
mory, with  the  following  highly  honourable  inscription. 

ctcd  by  the  King1  and  Parliament 

as  a  testimony  to 
The  virtues  and  ability 

of 
WILLIAM  PITT,  ivirl  of  Chatham, 

During  whose  administration 

Divine  Providence 

Exalted  Great  Britain 

To  a  li.-igiit  of  MTUS  parity  and  glory 

Unknown  to  any  fomier  *ee. 

PLINY  the  y  as  born  at  Copr»o,  in  tf&e  year  62. 

Ft-  brought  int  >  the  world  with  him  fine  pa?  is  aw<j  ar  vie- 
ganr  ta.sur,  which  hi  did  not  fail  to  cultivate  early  ;  (or,  at 
Kvu  vr-.rs  or'.jtge,  he  wrote  a  Greek  tragedy,  He  h*e- 
qut-nt''d  ihv  schools  or  the  rhetoricians,  and  heard  Quints- 
lian  ;  tor  whom  he  entertained  so  high  an  esteem,  that  he 
bestowed  -  considerable  portion  upon  his  daughter,  at  her 
marriage.  In  his  eighteenth  yr^r,  he  began  to  plead  in  the 
Forum,  which  was  the  usual  rouci  to  dignities.  Here  he 
displayed  uncommon  abilities  and  eloquence. 

He  was  promoted  to  the  consulate  by  the  emperor  Tra- 
jan, in  the  year  1  UO,  when  he  was  38  years  of  age.  In  this 
office,  he  prono'.inced  that  celebrated  paiiegyric  on  TV»jan, 
which  has  ever  since  been  admired,  as  well  for  the  copi- 
ousness of  the  topics  as  the  elegance  of  address.  It  has  al- 
ways been  considered  as  a  master-piece  of  composition  and 
eloquence.  His  u  Epistles,"  are  written  with  great  polite- 
ness and  spirit ;  and  abound  with  interesting  anecdotes  of 
many  eminent  persons. 

Pliny  died  about  the  year  116: — his  manners,  notwith- 
standing the  general  contagion  of  the  age  in  which  he  liv- 
ed, were  pure.  His  writings  breathe  a  spirit  of  transcend- 
ant  goodness  and  humanity  :  his  only  imperfection  appears 
to  be,  too  great  a  desire  that  the  public  and  poster-it/ 
should  know  how  humane  and  good  he  was. 

POPE,  Alexander — an  English  poet  of  the  first  eminence, 
was  bora  in  London,  in  the  year  1688  : — his  t.-.th-.-r  was  a 
linen  draper,  and  a  distant  relation  of  the  e;-rl  of  D •»-  n^. 
lie  was  taught  to  read  very,  early  by  an  aunt;  and  learned 


APPENDIX. 

to  write  without  nnv  ice,  by  copying  printed  books, 

funrly  hi  ing  oi    im-    Koman  cath< 

Jit  vears  ol  ;tpe  uncle?'  the  cart-  oi  ,, 

taught  him  the  rudiment-)  fit    the  JL.itin  and  C»:  .,'ies 

ther.      I  ,-d  muler,   in 

>t  of  tuition,  hr  in  .iid  to  be  one  oi  t. 

.  are  srll-tan 

He  early  di^.  <  >v  ert d  an  inclination  to  vtrsifV;  :ind  at  iif- 
•,  he    hud    s^ribblv-d    a    t>rt  at    cK-,il  of   poui  v  of   various 

the 

n,  he  Mlt-  r\v,ii(l^  n-»y 

of  i  .  ;'  ,  s\  h«-n 

I  ^  !;:-si  productions  \\cre 

the  rhil dii  n  ol  s?  'i!    love  .JIM! 

he  |)T  mces  ;  and  1  th<> 
ivv.^.  IT  \v»s.      but  ilicM-  de- 

(    mished  lo'-  t  \  *  r." 

In  1!  published  his  a  Partorals,*1  which  first  intro- 

duced him  to  the  wits  of  that  period.    His  tk  Kss;!     on 
tic^  I  in   1  7O8.      ';I'this  \vv>rk  Dr.  Johnson  ob- 

•ervrs,  th:».t  it'  he    had  written  nothing   else,  it  would    have 
pliH'.-d  him  .1  Cities  and  the  first  is  it 

exhibits  e\\  ry  iv»od'-   of  txcellence  that  can   embellish  or 
di^niiy  did  '  { Ds'nion-  >n  of  matter,  novelty 

ot  arran^-mi-nt.  of    precept,  Splendour  oi    illustra- 

LJ  171^2,   be  published 

a   rh  of  the  Lock."      This  is  the  most  attractive  of 

all  ludicrous  compositions.     The  creative  i  imagi- 

nation, wlvr'  .nstituu.s  a  poet,  is,  pi  rhaps,  more 

i,    than  i'i  !-is  pu:  t« 

tht  r       In  1715,  he  produced  his  kk  Iliad;"  a  U  n  of 

eminent  Mierit.    «t  is  not  the  work  of  a  m«.-re  schola:  or  \ 
siMer:  it  is  the  performance  of  a  poet,      'i  is  so 

exquisitely  harmonious,  that  it  m;sy  be  said  to  have  tu 
the  English  tongue,   in  the  vc-ar  1728.  his  u  Dunciad"'  ap- 
pi  aivd.      As  a  work  of  wit  and  ingenious  satire,  it  h'ts  t<"w 
eqtials.    Wltliotit  approvi'  and  malignity  -.'f 

the  design,  it  nuiv  be  s.iid,  tint  the  vigour  of  intellect,  and 
the  fertility  of  i.iitcv.  which  it  displays,  are  equally  admira- 
ble. In  1733,  he  p'ubHsfejed  hjs  a  Essay  on  Man/'  Whi;t- 
ever  o'-j;  rti>.  =ns  ma\  b-.  made  f>  this  work,  as  an  ethical 
the  reader  will  find  it  a  storehouse  of  great  and  ge- 


APPENDIX.  293 . 

tterous  Keatiments :  he  will  seldom  rise  from  the  perusal  of 
it,  without  kriing  his  mind  animated  with  th,  l-.ve  ol  \  ir- 
tue  ;  and  n.i  ;u  btn?  voknce  towards  nib  fellow  crea- 

tures, aiul  pi  tv  towards  his  Creator. 

Pope  was  the  author  of  many  other  poems,  which  can- 
not be  enmiv, rated  in  this  skcuh. — In  1743,  he  found  ins 
cn.isiitution  >p,.ired;  and  he  declined  gpiduali}  nil 

Yis  (ie'tth.  which  happened  in  the  57th  vcar  ol  his  ug< . 

FIUOR,  Matthew,  an  emin«-nt  English  poet,  was  horn  in 
L  :)  Ion  in  !o(H.  His  father  dud  whilst  he  was  very  young; 
a;<  an  urcl  ,  v?ho  w\*  a  vintntr,  gave  him  somr  education 
ni  VVt  stmin«ter  school;  and  afterwards  to«»k  him  home,  to 
tririn  him  to  bin  own  occupation.  Young  Prior,  however,  at 
h»s  leisure  hours,  preset  utcd  the  studv  ot  the  classics,  and 
espf'C'-<llv  of  his  favourite  'Hor.»ce.  This  introduced  him  to 
some  puhtr  lompanv^who  Irtqinnt-u  hi^  unclrns  house. 
The  rarl  of  Dorset  took  particular  notice  of  him  ;  and  pro- 
curt  (1  his  being  sent  to  Cambridge,  where  he  became  a  iel- 
loa*  of  St.  John's  collrgr.  Hi  was  brought  to  court  bv  the 
carl  of  Dorset.  He  served  as  secretary  to  several  t-mbas- 
ai  s  ;  and  in  1697  he  was  made  secret  try  of  state  for  ire- 
land,  in  I7OO  he  was  Appointed  one  of  the  lords  commis- 
sioners of  trade  and  plantations  ;  and  in  1711,  he  was  sent 
minister  plenipotentiary  to  Fr  -nee,  to  negodate  a  peace 
with  that  kingdom.  Amidst  his  various  public  employ- 
ments, he  found  time  to  indulge  his  poetical^  talents  ;  and 
published  many  pieces,  which  have  been  much  read  and 
applauded.  As  a  poet,  he  hoi- is  a  high  rank  for  elegance 
an  I  correctness.  His  Alma  has  many  admirers.  Oi  this 
pue.m  Pope  said,  that  he  could  wish  to  have  been  the  au- 
thor. u  The  paraphrase  on  St.  Paul's  Exhortation  to  Cha- 
rit\,''  Dr.  Johnson  says  ^  is  eminently  beautiful." 

Prior  spent  the  latter  year*  of  his  life  in  tranquility  and 
retirement,  and  died  in  the  year  1721. 

ROBERTSON,  William, — a  celebrated  historian,  was  bora 
in  Scotland,  in  1721.  When  his  studies  at  the  university 
of  Edinburgh,  were  completed,  he  was  licensed  to  preach ; 
and,  in  1743,  two  years  afterwards,  was  presented  to  the 
living  of  GSadsmuir  in  East  Lothian.  The  income  was  in- 
considerable, not  exceeding  one  hundred  pounds  a  year  : 
but  the  preferment  came  to  him  ;tt  a  time  singularly  favour- 
able j  for  soon  afterwards  both  his  parents  died,  leaving  a 


294  APPENDIX. 

frnily  of  six  daughters  an  !  a  r  son,  ia  sncli  circuni- 

:    him  t<>  t)  stow.      Undei  j    the  magnitude  ol   a 

chit,  u  t    h  ;\ .  ,d   fatal  to  tl.  cts 

thai  had   hit'  idles,  h 

critic,  to  a  sacred  di.ity  all  personal  considei  .iti'Mis  ;  .;nd, 
accordm-U,  hi.  invited  1  uuilv  to  .  -iir, 

an*!  prn  roof, 

till  tlvy  were  s<  r  >lv    in  the  world.      This  ( 

cl'Kt  IKMIS  '  to  the  gt-nerqsify 

of  his  dis!)i)^iiioi 

In  17.)(J,  he  j  I  his  fcw  H  I   Scotlan-i."  This 

njse  so  unbound- 
ed, that,  !  a  month  from  its  publit.  ition,  he 
\va-. 

lion     lu  is  tk  Hist  Fihh,*' 

and  in  1777,  thr  u  H  . uc;»."    It  is  not  possible 

to  s  works,  in  higher  terms  ol  pi  aise,  than  they 

.    With  respect  to  selection  of  materials,  imp.trti.di- 
ly,  nrr^n^«  mi-nt,   Ian.,  id   interesting  representation, 

thty  scare  <  l\   h'\.  n  historical  composition. 

In  1789,  he  |  >n  Ilistoucal  I)i^([uisition  con- 

eruiing  Ancient  IIK>:  >rk,  which  he  periorme%l 

in  twelve  months,  exhibits  in  every  part,  a  diligence  in  re- 
search, a  sound russ  ot  judgment,  and  a  perspicuity  of  me- 
%hod,  little,  if  at  all,  interior  to  those  which  distinguish  hie 
otru  r  pt-rformant 

He  was  principal  of  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  histo- 
rapher  for  Scotland,  and  one  of  the  king's  chaplains  for 
that  coantrv.    He  dud  in  \ 

ROLLIN,  CharU-s, —  i  Frenchman,  celebrated  for  elo- 
quence, and  skill  in  the  belles  iettres,  was  the  son  of  a  cut- 
It  r  at  Paris,  ami  born  there  in  1601.  II  early  distinguish- 
ed himself  by  parts  and  application,  and  easily  obtained 
the  first  rank  among  his  fellow  students.  In  1688,  he  be- 
came professor  of  eloquence,  in  the  royal  college  ;  and  ne 
man  ever  exercised  its  functions  with  greater  eclat.  In 
1694,  he  was  chosen  rector  of  the  university  of  Paris.  Here 
he  made  many  useful  regulations.  He  substituted  acade- 
mical exercises  in  the  place  of  tragedies,  and  promoted 
among  th«-  students  a  greater  attention  to  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures. He  was  indefatigable  in  business,  and  educated  a 


APPENDIX.  295 

very  %-reat  number  of  persons  who  did  honour  to  the  \ 
ous  <lep -trtuK'iUs  of  the  state. 

By  the  intrigues  of  ill-disposed  persons,  he  was  deprived 
of  his  office  in  the  university.  But  whale vi  r  th.it  seminary 
migiit  suffer  from  the  rernoval  of  Rollin,  the  public  was  a 
giuuer  :  for  he  then  employed  hi.nself  to  ,  ompose  his  trea- 
tise upon  the  a  Manner  of  Studying  and  Teaching  the 
'Belles  Letires,"  which  was  published  in  1726.  This  work 
has  been  much  esteemed,  and  exceedingly  successful.  la 
1738,  appeared  his  "  Ancient  History/'  Oi  this  publica- 
tion Voltaire  says,  fct  It  is  the  best  compilation  that  has  yet 
appeared  in  any  language,"  He  published  soon  afterwards 
his  l'  Roman  History."  This  performance  was  not  so  suc- 
cessful as  his  kt  Ancient  History."  It  is,  indeed,  rather  a 
moral  and  historical  discourse,  than  a  formal,  history.  The 
reader  will,  however,  find  it  replete  with  instruction. 

This  excellent  person  died  in  1741. — He  was  a  man  of 
an  admirable  composition,  very  ingenious,  consummate  in 
polite  learning,  of  rigid  morals,  and  eminently  pious.  In  all 
respects,  except  a  little  zeal  of  a  superstitious  nature,  he 
was  a  very  estimable  and  irreproachable  character.  We 
find  in  his  works,  generous  and  exalted  sentiments  j  a  zeal 
for  the  good  of  society  ;  a  love  of  virtue  ;  a  veneration  for 
Providence  ,  and,  in  short,  ev  y  thing,  though  on  profane 
subjects,  sanctified  with  a  spirit  truly  religious. 

SALLUSTIUS,  Caius  Crispus,- — a  Latin  historian,  was 
born  in  Italy  85  years  before  the  Christian  era.  He  was  an. 
excellent  writer.  Of  his  numerous  works,  nothing  remain^ 
but  his  "  History  of  Cataline's  Conspiracy,"  and  of  the 
^1  Jugurthine  Wars,"  with  a  few  ©rations.  No  inatt  has  in- 
Weighed  more  sharply  against  the  vices  of  his  age  than  this* 
historian  :  yet  few  persons  had  less  pretensions  to  virtue 
than  Sallust.  On  this  occasion,  it  may  be  observed,  that 
virtue  derives  some  sanction  from  the  praises  of  wicked 
men,  whose  reason  forces  them  to  approve  what  their  pas* 
sions  will  not  suffer  them  to  practise.  f 

SCOTT,  John, — -an  English  poet,  was  born  in  the  yc -at 
1730.  In  1760,  he  published  four  "  Elegies,  desciptive  anj 
moral,"  which  obtained  the  approbation  of  Dr.  Young,  ;*n cl 
of  several  other  eminent  characters.  When  the  author  of 
ihe  "  Night  Thoughts"  received  a  copy  «>i  th*  ** 


296 

from  his  bookseller,  he  return  eu  went  ia 

ik  you  lor  your  present.    1  a  i<iire  me 

poetry  and  piety  of  the  author  ;  and  shall  d  the  cre- 

dit. to  recommend  it  to  a  .  nds."      In  178:2,  he  pub- 

li:>hed  a  volume  oi   poems:    !  .'.  hich   he  \vi 

I  "  Am  well1* 

•      ii  easy  and  melodious  dot  oem.    And  the  "  Cri- 

1  Kssays"  possess  a  urn^:  mviit.     His 

muse  was  singularly  chaste  and  c;  .1  iuan  of 

;it  bene\  and   a  /  '\ocate    ior  the   poor 

;  distressed  :  —  his  charm  .live 

b<  nevolence  ;   for  lie  searched  out  and  relit  vcd/the  objects 
\vhn  stood  in   need  oi'  his  bounty  and  consolation.      In  the 


SLED,  Jeremiah  —  an    English  divine,  was  born  at  Clif- 
ton, near  Penrith,  in  Cu  i  :    iu:  had  hib  school  edu- 

cation at  Lo\vt!-iLr  ;  and  hih  acarUnncnl  *<t  Quec-n's  college, 
in  Oxford,  of  which  society  he  was  chosen  fellow  in  1; 
The    greater   part  of  his    liiV  was   spent   at   Twickenham, 

•  re  he   was  assistant  or  curate   to   Dr.  Waterland  :   he 
published  two  v  nt  u  Discourses  on  seve- 

ral important  su  .1  died  in  17-17;  was  exempla- 

ry in  his   morals  ;  he  had  an  able  head,  and  a  most  excel- 
lent h«  art. 

SMART,  Christopher  —  a  poet  of  some  celebrity,  was  bora 
in  Kent,  in  17122;   he  was  one  of  those  boys  whose  minds 
display  more   early  vigour  than  their  bodies:   he  soon 
covered  a  taste  i  v,  which  was  encYmr^J  and  cul- 

tivated.     At   seventeen  he  was   removed  from  school   to 
Pv  mbrol;«'-ha!l  ai  Jge. 

The  sk-nder  means  of  support  which  he  possessed,  w<-re 
ill  adapted  to  his  constant  temptation  to  »iix  with  a  variety 
of  company,  which  the  admiration  of  his  talents,  his  clus- 
.1  attainments,  and  his  vivacity,  produced.  At  college, 
therefore,  he  drew  upon  himself  embarrassments  which 
oppressed  him  dfring  life.  In  1753,  he  married  and  set- 
tled in  London,  having  determined  to  subsist  by  his  pow- 
ers as  an  author.  But  this  mode  of  life  neither  augmented 
his  personal  importance,  nor  the  credit  of  his  productions. 
As  he  was  never  sufficiently  delicate  in  his  person,  his 
taste,  or  his  acquaintance,  he  lost  his  dignity,  his  time,  and 
his  peace  «f  mind.  Yet,  at  one  period,  he  enjoyed  the  i'g* 


APPENDIX.  20, 

tnilkvr   acquaintance    of    Dr.   Johnson,   Dr.    James,    Or, 

Ha \vkes\v orth,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  and  most  of  the  persons  it* 
L©  >  were  tiitn  celebrated  for  genius  or  learning.' 

Though  his  constitution  as  well  as  his  fortune,  requ 
the  utmost  cure,  he  was  equally  negligent  of  both  :  and  his 
various  repeated  embarrassments,  acting  upon  an  imagina- 
tion  uncommonly  fervid,    produced  temporary  alienations 
.of  mind  ;   which,  at  last,  became  so  violent  and  continued, 
as  to.  render  confinement  necessary.      At  length,  after  suf- 
fering the  accumulated   miseries  of  poverty,  disease,  and 
insanity,  he  died  of  a  disorder  in  his  liver,  in  1771,  in  i 
49th  year  of  his  age. 

His  writings  consist  of  Prize  Poems,  Odes,  Sonnets> 
Fables,  Latin  and  English  Translations,  &c.  :  his  fine  po- 
ems on  the  Divine  Attributes,  are  written  with  the  sub- 
limest  energies  of  religion,  and  the  true  enthusiasm  of  po- 
etry. In  composing  them,  hit  was  frequently  so  impressed 
with  sentiments  of  devotion,  as  to  write  particular  passages 
on  his  knees.  The  character  of  Smart  was  strongly  varied 
ov  exr^tlr-ru-Hc  ana  failing  -  K-  —  f.  icmjlv,  atfectioi»ate, 
and  liberal  to  excess  ;  so  much  so,  as  often  to  give  that  to 
others,  of  which  he  was  in  the  utmost  want  himself :  but 
his  chief  fault,  from  which  most  of  his  other  faults  pro- 
ceeded,  was  his  deviation  from  the  rules  of  sobriety  ;  of 
which  the  early  use  of  cordials,  in  the  infirm  slate  of  hie 
childhood  and  youth,  might  perhaps  be  one  cause,  and  is 
the  only  extenuation. 

THOMSON,'  James, — an  excellent  British  poet,  was  born 
in  the  shire  of  Roxburgh,  in  the  year  1700.  From 
school  of  Jedhurgh,  where  he  was  taught  tire  common  ru- 
diments of  learning,  ht  was  removed  to  the  university  of 
Edinburgh.  But  at  neither  of  these  seminaries  was  he  dis- 
tinguished by  any  remarkable,  superiority  of  parts.  He  \vivs 
educated  with  a  view  to  the  ministry  ;  but  his  genius  strong- 
ly inclining  him  to  the  study  of  poetry,  he  chose' to  relin- 
quish his  intention  of  engaging  in  the  sacked  function. 

In    1726,  he   published  his  excellent  poem  on  Winter. 
Though  it  was  not,  at  first,  eagerly  received  by  the  readers, 
of  poetry,  it  soon  met  with  great  applause  :  and  Thomson's 
acquaintance  was  courted    by  persons  of  the  first  rank  anr 
fashion,     The  expectations  which  his  Winter  had  raisec1 . 


A??EKT 

n  r     fully  satisfied  by   the  successive   publications  of 

isnns  ;  ot  Summer,  in  the  year  1727  ;  oi  Spring,  in 
ollowing  ', -ear  :  and  oi  Autumn,  in  17. 

\>-oiks   ha  J    appeared,  he   travelled  with 

tlv.  honorable  Charles  Talb«>t,and  visited  inu^t  of  the  courts 

:    turned  to  England  with  his  vivv.  s  greatly 

i  ;  not  ().  rior  nature,  and  the  works  of  art, 

'.id  of  the  constitution  and 

polity  of  the  several  .nd  their 

•jticular  and  judicious  his  ob- 
in  his  poem  on  Li:  :>u:h 

.iit<  r  he  re  tin  : 

in  H  !no- 

der,  in  a  str.  <:an 

•<?,  most  of  which  met  with  publi-  •;.      The 

.  u  The  Castk  oi  lu- 
'inder  hi  >.cd 

^t  IflSt,    V.'iLr.  v  vxi  «.«^-        It  'ret 

of  all  his  compositions.  i  with  all  tne  de- 

corations which   pot  tical  imagination  could  c<  The 

pkm  is  artfully  laid,  ;uid   naturallv  conducted,  and  the  de- 
Dutiful  succession. 

In  the  summer  of   1748,  he   was  seized  with  a  fever^ 
which  soon  put  a  period  to  his  liie. 

Thomson  was  an  amiable  and  good  man.  His  love  of 
mankind,  of  his  country  and  friends  ;  his  devotion  to  the 
Supreme  Being,  founded  on  the  most  elevated  and  just  con- 
ceptions of  his  operations  and  providence,  shine  brightly  in 
his  writings  :  he  possesed  great  benevoli  nee  of  heart,  which 
extended  even  to  the  brute  creation.  Through  his  whole 
life,  he  was  not  known  to  give  any  person  a  moment's 
pain,  either  by  his  writings  or  otherwise*  These  amiable 
virtues,  this  divine  temper  of  mind,  did  not  fail  to  receive 
their  due  reward.  The  best  and  greatest  men  of  his  time 
honoured  him  with  their  friendship  and  protection  ;  the  fa- 
vour and  applause  of  the  public  attended  him  ;  his  friends 
laved  him  with  an  enthusiastic  ardour,  and  sincerely  la- 
Aented  his  death. 
ta  As  a  writer,  he  is  entitled  to  one  praise  of  the  highest 


APPENDIX.  20D 

ki,K] — his  mode  of  thinking,  and  of  expressing  his  thoughts, 
is  original,  lie  thinks  always  as  a  man  of  genius  ;  he  looks 
round  on  nature,  and  on  life,  with  the  eye  which  nature  on- 
lv  b  stows  on  a  poet,  the  eye  that  distitiguis.es  in  every 
thing  presented  to  its  view,  wh.ftxvcr  there  is  on  whub:h 
im  sgi'.uition  can  delight  to  be  detained  ;  and  with  a  mind 
that  at  once  comprehends  the  vast,  and  attends  to  die  mi- 
nute. The  reader  of  the  ^  Season/'  wond-  rs  that  he  never 
Saw  before  what  Thomson  show*  him,  and  that  he  had  ne- 
ver iVlt  what  Thomson  impre 

WATTS,  Dr.  Isaac,-— a  learned  and  eminent  dissenting 
minister,  was  born  at  Southampton^ in  1674,01  parents  re- 
nvirkabU-  for  pit  tv.  and  virtue.  From  his  infancy,  he  dis- 
covered a  stron,  g  ;  and  was  early  dis- 
tinguished for  the  sprightiiness  of  his  wit ;  which,  even  m 
the  years  of  younger  lite,  vvtis  regulated  by  a  deep  sense  of 
rell-?,i«yn..  At  the -school  oi  Southampton,  he  was  taught 
Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew;  -md  in  169O  wa«  **nt  to  an 
r>Ccu!'.  ;nv  i.s  London,  to  cnrv-j-^  •**-•-  hi.8  education,  His  tutur 
declared  that  ciu'ing  the  whole  time  of  his  tuition  at  this 
•  c\nv,  tic  vv.is  not  only  so  inoffensive  as  never  to  give 
occasion  for  reproof  ;  but  so  exemplary,  that  he  often  pro- 
posed him  as  a  pattern  to  his  other  pupils. 

In  1696,  he  was  invited  by  Sir  John  Martopp,  to  reside 
in  his  family  at  Stoke  Newington,  as  tutor  to  his  son.  Here 
he  continued  about  four  yenrs  ;  and  acquitted  himselt  with 
fidelity  and  reputation.  Believing  it  o  be  his  dutv,  he  de- 
termined to  fie  vote  h?s  life  to  the  pastoral  office,  of  the  im- 
portance of  which,  he  had  a  deep  sense  upon  his  mind.  He 
began  to  preach  on  his  birth- day  1698,  when  he  had  com- 
pleted his  24th  year  ;  and  he  met  wiih  general  acceptance. 

In  1712,  he  had  a  severe  fever,  which,  by  its  violence 
and  continuance,  reduced  him  so  much  that  he  never  per- 
fectly recovered.  The  languishing  state  of  his  health  drew 
upon  him  the  attention  of  Sir  Thomas  Abney,  who  receiv- 
ed him  into  his  house  ;  where,  with  a  constancy  of  friend- 
ship and  uniformity  of  conduct  not  olten  to  be  found,  he 
was  treated  for  thirty  six  years,  with  all  the  kindness  that 
friendship  could  prompt,  and  all  the  attention  that  respect 
could  dictate.  From  the  time  of  his  reception  m  this  fami- 
ly, his  life  was  no  otherwise  diversified  than  by  successive 


30O 

labours  for  the  good  of  mankind  ;  the  number  and  variety 

of  which  sh  c  x. 

tint  oHiis  c;:  .  the  urm 

:m  1    AlH-rdt  ait   his   knov>  ,  cohl 

thr  d<  grri-  of  Doctor  of  Diviu. 

His   \vri  ings  ar.-  ::i   this  sketch,  we 

Cannot  .  ,nu| 

.  5  volunv  ,nSj 

, 
ar«-  a  sufl 

an  id,  a 

ils- 

Miud^ 
.jndcci   to  all 
you 

]  s  the 

•nd  oi  his  c!  !m- 

bi-r   'n;i  Kir.  lS  u-orn  g  \-,  \\ith- 

out  pain,  till  h  !  in  a,, 

ctii;:l  and    moral  accomp;  ^  are  uni- 

Vers  t),  in  the  highest  degree,  iv.*- 

PIT  .  ;uaintance  with  the  most  c<rle* 

b:  :ucd  v  his  mind 

.  and 

carf- 

no- 
>ntrqver&3 

to  heat  and   to  reconcile  dispr. 

than  to  .  nrty  ;  an-1    h«  -  ith 

-,  us   is  truly  inUru< 

and  exe:n:.>!.»rv.     His  singular 'patience.  an.l  p; 
tion  to  rii-    >.  i  I  of  Gud   in  seasons  of  arlliction,  eininentljr 
denot- 

WILKIE,  William, — -\  Scottish  poet,  was  born  in  the 
year  1721.  H  received  his  early  education  at  the  parish 
school  of  Daimeny,  under  the  care  of  a  very  re^  ,nd 

successful  ti-acher.  At  the  age  of  thirteen,  he  was  seat  t® 
the  university  ol  Edinburgh,  where  he  distinguished  him- 
self in  the  diiFerent  classes  of  languages,  philosophy,  and 


-got 

ideology  ;  ?mcl  formed  many  of  those  friendships  and  con- 
nexions which  afforded  him  much  happiness  through  life. 
In  1757,  he  published  his  "  Epigoniad,"  a  poem  ia  nine 
books.  Hume  characterised  this  work,  "  as  one  of  the  or- 
naments ot  our  language. *  His  "  Fables"  were  produced 
in  1768.  Previous  to  this  publication*  the  university  of  St. 
Andrews  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Di- 
vinity. He  was  fond  of  agriculture,  and  remarkable  for  hi« 
knowledge  of  its  different  branches.  After  a  ling^ing  in- 
disposition, he  died  at  Si.  Andrews  in  1772,  in  the  fifty- 
first  \  ear  of  his  age. 

Wilkie  was  very  attentive  to  the  duties  of  religion.  He 
employed  a  considerable  portion  of  his  time  in  reading  the 
Holy  Scriptures  ;  and  he  regularly  kept  up  the  worship  of 
G  )d  in  his  family.  In  every  situation  of  life,  he  was  kind  to 
persons  in  distress,  and  very  liberal  in  his  private  chanty. 

As  a  poet,  his  compositions  are  not  less  distinguished 
by  imagination  and  judgment,  than  his  manners  were  te- 
markable  for  eccentricity  and  originality-  His  a  Epigoni- 
ad,"  if  he  had  written  nothing  else,  is  sufficiest  to  entitle 
him  to  an  honourable  rank  among  British  poets.  His  a  Fa- 
bles'* discover  an  ingenious  and  acute  turn  of  mind,  and  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  nature  and  manners  of  men  : 
but  they  are  not  recommended  by  a  great  degree  of  poeti- 
cal spirit.  If  Wilkie's  Fables  do  not  possess  the  ease  of 
Gay,  the  elegance  of  Moore,  or  the  humour  and  poigna  \cy 
«f  Smart,  they  have  the  merit  of  an  artless  and  easy  versi- 
fication ;  of  just  observation;  and  even,  occasionally,  of 
deep  reasoning  :  and  they  abound  in  strokes  of  a  pathetic 
simplicity. 

YOUNG,  Edward, — was  the  son  of  a  clergyman  of  the 
same  name,  and  was  born  in  1681.  At  a  proper  age,  he 
was  matriculated  of  All-Souls  college,  Oxford,  being  de- 
signed for  the  civil  law,  in  which  profession  he  took  a  de- 
gree. In  17O4,  he  published  his  poem  called  u  The  Last 
Day  ;"  which  was  soon  followed  by  "  The  Force  of  Reli- 
gion," or  u  Vanquished  Love."  These  productions  were 
highly  approved;  arid  procured  him  many  respectable  friends. 
He  was  intimate  with  Addison,  for  whose  il  Spectator,"  he 
wrote  many  papers.  The  turn  of  his  mind  inclining  him 
ttwards  the  church,  he  .enteml  into  orders,  was  made 


AP: 

c<i  tplain  to  the  \  T», 

\v»  mum  :  I" 

pn  ject  of  !,! 

\V  h  n   h  retty   tar   adv.mcid   in   lite,  he   in.: 

laJ\  K!  ^htcr  of  the  carl  ot  Lichfi-ki.   '1 

lad 

•i  oi  whom  di  j,  us 

li  as  f<;r  thu  of  hi-  \\i!  i  "  Niv;ht 

a  u  liicl.  d  an  i  J  err 

the  na  '.ic  of   X  uu^a  ;  :  .•  r  ; 

and  his  wife  though  nami-le^s,  is  fn-qu  'Uioncd. 

ills  satires,  tail     1  "  L.-  P.is- 

l.   Mis  "  Complai 

v  Night  Thouglii  and  d^ 

nance.      For 

grand  and  ri(  h  n  ived  an- 

not  Fa- 
'  and  his  u  Conjrttuit-s  on  Original  Composition,1* 

' 
Cii  '  eighty  years 


coun: 

Dr.  ,  natural! 

at  homo  in  i 

ila^  .  ;   church  yard   among  the 

II  i  ings  mostly  have  some  n  : 

tnce  to  a  future  |  1  this  serious  disposition  mixed  it- 

self even  with  his  improvements  in  gardening.   He  had  the 
representation  of  an  alcove  and  a  seat,  so  well  painted,  t, 
at  a  distance,  it  had  the  complete  appeal  ance  of  reality. 
On  v.ng  it,  the  deception  was  perceived  and  this 

motto  appeared,  Invisibitt  -nt*  li  The  things  un- 

seen do  not  deceive  us/'  He  was,  however,  fond  of  inno- 
eent  sports  and  amusement  ;  and  often  promoted  the  cheer- 
fulness of  his  company.  His  wit  was  generally  poignant, 
and  was  often  levelled  against  those  who  testified  any  con- 
tempt for  decency  or  religion.  It  may  be  truly  said,  that 
ke  tilled  his  post  with  great  dignity. 


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